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THE LIBRARY 
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THE UNIVERSITY 
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LOS ANGELES 


GIFT .OF 


ltrs. Lewrence Zelkin 





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ii COMEDY OF HUMAN LIFE 
BY -H. DE BALZAC 


SCENES FROM MILITARY LIFE 


THE: CHOUANS 
A PASSION IN THE DESERT 








BAe SNA Ve ee 


Translated by Miss K. P. WORMELEY. 





Already Published: 
PERE GORIOT. 
DUCHESSEH DE LANGEAIS. 
RISE AND FALL OF CESAR BIROTTEAU. 
EUGENIE GRANDET. 
COUSIN PONS. 
THE ‘COUNTRY DOCTOR. 
THE TWO BROTHERS. 
THE ALKAHEST (La Recherche del’Absolu). 
MODESTE MIGNON. 
THE MAGIC SKIN (La Peau de Chagrin). 
COUSIN BETTE. 
LOUIS LAMBERT. 
BUREAUCRACY (Les Employés). 
SERAPHITA. 
SONS OF THE SOIL (Les Paysans). 
FAME AND SORROW (Chat-qui-pelote). 
THE LiGY -OF TRE VALLEY, 
URSULA. 
AN HISTORICAL MYSTERY. 
ALBERT SAVARUS. 
BALZAC: A MEMOIR. 
PIEFRRETTE. 
THE CHOUANS. 
LOST ILLUSIONS. 


A GREAT MAN OF THE PROVINCES IN 
PARIS. 


THE BROTHERHOOD OF CONSOLATION. 
THE VILLAGE RECTOR. 


MEMOIRS OF TWO YOUNG MARRIED 
WOMEN. 


CATHERINE DE’ MEDICI. 
LUCIEN DE RUBEMPRE. : 
FERRAGUS, CHIEF OF THE DEVORANTS. 
A START IN LIFE. 

THE MARRIAGE CONTRACT. 
BEATRIX. 

A DAUGHTER OF EVE. 

THE GALLERY OF ANTIQUITIES. 
GOBSECK. 

THE LESSER BOURGEOISIE. 
JUANA. 

THE DEPUTY OF ARCIS. 


ROBERTS BROTHERS, Publishers, Boston. 





HONORE DE BALZAC 


TRANSLATED BY 


KATHARINE PRESCOTT WORMELEY 





PAE CHORD ANS 


BRITTANY IN 1799 





ROBERTS. BROVLEAERS 


3 SOMERSET STREET 


BOSTON 
1895 


Copyright, 1892, 


By ROBERTS BROTHERS. 





All rights reserved. 


Cinfbersitn Nress: 


Joun Witson anp Son, Camprince, U.S.A. 











aN THE DESERT So. ae 











THE CHOUANS. 





To Monsieur Totopore Dasiin, MERCHANT. 


To my first friend, my first work. 
De BALzau. 


Ne 
AN AMBUSCADE. 


Eartry in the year VIII., at the beginning of Vendé- 
miaire, or, to conform to our own calendar, towards the 
close of September, 1799, a hundred or so of peasants 
and a large number of citizens, who had left Fougéres 
in the morning on their way to Mayenne, were going 
up the little mountain of La Peélerine, half-way between 
Fougéres and Ernée, a small town where travellers 
along that road are in the habit of resting. This com- 
pany, divided into groups that were more or less nu- 
merous, presented a collection of such fantastic costumes 
and a mixture of individuals belonging to so many and 
diverse localities and professions that it will be well 
to describe their characteristic differences, in order to 
give to this history the vivid local coloring to which so 
much value is attached in these days, —- though some 
critics do assert that it injures the representation of 
sentiments. 

Many of the peasants, in fact the greater number, 


were barefooted, and wore no other garments than a 
1 





g The Chouans. 


large goatskin, which covered them from the neck tothe _ 
knees, and trousers of white and very coarse linen, the — 
ill-woven texture of which betrayed the slovenly in-- 
dustrial habits of the region. ‘The straight locks of their 
long hair mingling with those of the goatskin hid their 
faces, Which were bent on the ground, so completely 
that the garment might have been thought their own 
skin, and they themselves mistaken at first sight for a 
species of the animal which served them as clothing. 
But through this tangle of hair their eyes were presently 
seen to shine like dew-drops in a thicket, and their 
glances, full of human intelligence, caused fear rather 
than pleasure to those who met them. Their heads 
were covered with a dirty head-gear of red flannel, 
not unlike the Phrygian cap which the Republic had 
lately adopted as an emblem of liberty. Each man car- 
ried over his shoulder a heavy stick of knotted oak, at 
the end of which hung a linen bag with little in it. 
Some wore, over the red cap, a coarse felt hat, with 
a broad brim adorned by a sort of woollen chenille of 
many colors which was fastened round it. Others 
were clothed entirely in the coarse linen of which the 
trousers and wallets of all were made, and showed 
nothing that was distinctive of the new order of civili- 
zation. Their long hair fell upon the collar of a round 
jacket with square pockets, which reached to the hips 
only, a garment peculiar to the peasantry of western 
France. Beneath this jacket, which was worn open, a 
waistcoat of the same linen with large buttons was 
visible. Some of the company marched in wooden 
shoes; others, by way of economy, carried them in 
their hand. This) costume, soiled by Jong usage, 
blackened with sweat and dust, and less original than 


The Chouans. 3 


that of the other men, had the historic merit of serving 
as a transition between the goatskins and the brilliant, 
almost sumptuous, dress of a few individuals dispersed 
here and there among the groups, where they shone 
like flowers. In fact, the blue linen trousers of these 
last, and their red or yellow waistcoats, adorned with 
two parallel rows of brass buttons and not unlike breast- 
plates, stood out as vividly among the white linen and 
shaggy skins of their companions as the corn-flowers 
and poppies in a wheat-field. Some of them wore wooden 
shoes, which the peasants of Brittany make for them- 
selves; but the greater number had heavy hob-nailed 
boots, and coats of coarse cloth cut in the fashion of the 
old régime, the shape of which the peasants have re- 
ligiously retained even to the present day. The collars 
of their shirts were held together by buttons in the 
shape of hearts or anchors. ‘The wallets of these men 
seemed to be better filled than those of their compan- 
ions, and several of them added to their marching out- 
fit a flask, probably full of brandy, slung round their 
necks by a bit of twine. A few burgesses were to be 
seen in the midst of these semi-savages, as if to show 
the extremes of civilization in this region. Wearing 
round hats, or flapping brims or caps, high-topped 
boots, or shoes and gaiters, they exhibited as many 
and as remarkable differences in their costume as the 
peasants themselves. About a dozen of them wore the 
republican jacket known by the name of ‘‘la car- 
magnole.” Others, well-to-do mechanics, no doubt, 
were clothed from head to foot in cloth of one color. 
Those who had most pretension in their dress wore 
swallow-tail coats or surtouts of blue or green cloth, 
more or less defaced. These last, evidently characters, 


4 The Chouans. 


marched in boots of various kinds, swinging heavy 
canes with the air and manner of those who take 
heart under misfortune. A few heads carefully pow- 
dered, and some queues tolerably well braided showed 
the sort of care which a beginning of education or 
prosperity inspires. A casual spectator observing 
these men, all surprised to find themselves in one 
another's company, would have thought them the in- 
habitants of a village driven out by a conflagration. 
But the period and the region in which they were gave 
an altogether different interest to this body of men. 
Any one initiated into the secrets of the civil discords 
which were then agitating the whole of France could 
easily have distinguished the few individuals on whose 
fidelity the Republic might count among these groups, 
almost entirely made up of men who four years earlier 
were at war with her. 

One other and rather noticeable sign left no doubt 
upon the opinions which divided the detachment. The 
Republicans alone marched with an air of gayety. As 
to the other individuals of the troop, if their clothes 
showed marked differences, their faces at least and 
and their attitudes wore a uniform expression of ill- 
fortune. Citizens and peasantry, their faces all bore 
the imprint of deepest melancholy ; their silence had 
something sullen in it; they all seemed crushed under 
the yoke of a single thought, terrible no doubt but 
carefully concealed, for their faces were impenctrable, 
the slowness of their gait alone betraying their inward 
communings. From time to time a few of them, notice- 
able for the rosaries hanging from their necks (dan- 
gerous as it was to carry that sign of a religion which 
was suppressed, rather than abolished) shook their long 


The Chouans. & 


hair and raised their heads defiantly. They covertly 
examined the woods, and paths, and masses of rock 
which flanked the road, after the manner of a dog with 
his nose to the wind trying to scent his game; then, 
hearing nothing but the monotonous tramp of the silent 
company, they lowered their heads once more with the 
old expression of despair, like criminals on their way 
to the galleys to live or die. 

The march of this column upon Mayenne, the hetero- 
geneous elements of which it was composed, and the 
divers sentiments which evidently pervaded it, will ex- 
plain the presence of another troop which formed the 
head of the detachment. About a hundred and fifty 
soldiers, with arms and baggage, marched in the 
advance, commanded by the chief of a half-brigade. 
We may mention here, for the benefit of those who did 
not witness the drama of the Revolution, that this 
title was made to supersede that of colonel, proscribed 
by patriots as too aristocratic. These soldiers belonged 
to a demi-brigade of infantry quartered at Mayenne. 
During these troublous times the inhabitants of the 
west of France called all the soldiers of the Republic 
‘* Blues.” This nickname came originally from their 
blue and red uniforms, the memory of which is still so 
fresh as to render a description superfluous. A detach- 
ment of the Blues was therefore on this occasion es- 
corting a body of recruits, or rather conscripts, all 
displeased at being taken to Mayenne where military 
discipline was about to force upon them the uniformity 
of thought, clothing, and gait which they now lacked 
entirely. 

This column was a contingent slowly and with diffi- 
culty raised in the district of Fougéres, from which it 


6 The Chouans. 


was due under the levy ordered by the executive Direc- 
tory of the Republic on the preceding 10th Messidor. 
The government had asked for a hundred million of 
francs and a hundred thousand men as immediate rein- 
forcements for the armies then fighting the Austrians 
in Italy, the Prussians in Germany, and menaced in 
Switzerland by the Russians, in whom Suwarow had 
inspired hopes of the conquest of France. The de- 
partments of the West, known under the name of La 
Vendée, Brittany, and a portion of Lower Normandy, 
which had been tranquil for the last three years (thanks 
to the action of General Hoche), after a struggle last- 
ing nearly four, seemed to have seized this new occa- 
sion of danger to the nation to break out again. In 
presence of such aggressions the Republic recovered its 
pristine energy. It provided in the first place for the 
defence of the threatened departments by giving the 
responsibility to the loyal and patriotic portion of the 
inhabitants. In fact, the government in Paris, having 
neither troops nor money to send to the interior, 
evaded the difficulty by a parliamentary gasconade. 
Not being able to send material aid to the faithful 
citizens of the insurgent departments, it gave then its 
‘* confidence.” Possibly the government hoped that 
this measure, by arming the inhabitants against each 
other, would stifle the insurrection at its birth. This 
ordinance, the cause of future fatal reprisals, was thus 
worded: ‘* Independent companies of troops shall 
be organized in the Western departments.” This im- 
politic step drove the West as a body into so hostile an 
attitude that the Directory despaired of immediately 
subduing it. Consequently, it asked the Assemblies 
to pass certain special measures relating to the inde- 


The Chouans. t 


pendent companies authorized by the ordinance. In 
response to this request anew law had been promul- 
gated a few days before this history begins, organizing 
into regular legions the various weak and scattered 
companies. These legions were to bear the names of 
the departments, — Sarthe, Orne, Mayenne, Ille-et- 
Vilaine, Morbihan, Loire-Inférieure, and Maine-et- 
Loire. ‘' These legions,” said the law, ‘ will be 
specially employed to fight the Chouans, and cannot, 
under any pretence, be sent to the frontier.” 

The foregoing irksome details will explain both the 
weakness of the Directory and the movement of this 
troop of men under escort of the Blues. It may 
not be superfluous to add that these finely patriotic 
Directorial decrees had no realization beyond their 
insertion among the statutes. No longer restrained, 
as formerly, by great moral ideas, by patriotism, nor 
by terror, which enforced their execution, these later 
decrees of the Republic created millions and drafted 
soldiers without the slightest benefit accruing to its 
exchequer or its armies. The mainspring of the Revo- 
lution was worn-out by clumsy handling, and the appli- 
cation of the laws took the impress of circumstances 
instead of controlling them. 

The departments of Mayenne and _ Ille-et-Vilaine 
were at this time under the command of an old officer 
who, judging on the spot of the measures that were 
most opportune to take, was anxious to wring from 
Brittany every one of her contingents, more especially 
that of Fougeres, which was known to be a hot-bed 
of ** Chouannerie.” He hoped by this means to weaken 
its strength in these formidable districts. This de- 
voted soldier made use of the illusory provisions of the 





8 The Chouans. 


new law to declare that he would equip and arm at 
once all recruits, and he announced that he held at their 
disposal the one month’s advanced pay promised by 
the government to these exceptional levies. Though 
Brittany had hitherto repeatedly refused all kinds of 
military service under the Republic, the levies were 
made under the new law on the faith of its promises, 
and with such promptness that even the commander was 
startled. But he was one of those wary old watch-dogs 
who are hard to catch napping. He no sooner saw 
the contingents arriving one after the other than he 
suspected some secret motive for such prompt action. 
Possibly he was right in ascribing it to the fact of 
getting arms. At any rate, no sooner were the Fou- 
géres recruits obtained than, without delaying for 
laggards, he took immediate steps to fall back towards 
Alengon, so as to be near a loyal neighborhood, — 
though the growing disaffection along the route made 
the success of this measure problematical. This old 
officer, who, under instruction of his superiors, kept 
secret the disasters of our armies in Italy and Germany 
and the disturbing news from La Vendée, was attempt- 
ing on the morning when this history begins, to make a 
forced march on Mayenne, where he was resolved to 
execute the Jaw according to his own good pleasure, and 
fill the half-empty companies of his own brigade with 
his Breton conscripts. The word ‘* conscript” which 
later became so celebrated, had just now for the first 
time taken the place in the government decrees of 
the word requisitionnaire hitherto applied to all Re- 
publican recruits. 

3efore leaving Fougéres the chief secretly issued to 
his own men ample supplics of ammunition and suffi- 


The Chouans. 9 


cient rations of bread for the whole detachment, so as 
to conceal from the conscripts the length of the march 
before them. He intended not to stop at Ernée (the 
last stage before Mayenne), where the men of the con- 
tingent might find a way of communicating with the 
Chouans who were no doubt hanging on his flanks. 
The dead silence which reigned among the recruits, 
surprised at the manceuvring of the old republican, and 
their lagging march up the mountain excited to the 
very utmost the distrust and watchfulness of the chief 
— whose name was Hulot. All the striking points in 
the foregoing description had been to him matters of 
the keenest interest ; he marched in silence, surrounded 
by five young officers, each of whom respected the 
evident preoccupation of their leader. But just as Hulot 
reached the summit of La Pélerine he turned his head, 
as if by instinct, to inspect the anxious faces of the 
recruits, and suddenly broke silence. The slow advance 
of the Bretons had put a distance of three or four hun- 
dred feet between themselves and their escort. Hulot’s 
face contorted after a fashion peculiar to himself. 

‘¢ What the devil are those dandies up to?” he ex- 
claimed in a sonorous voice. ‘* Creeping instead of 
marching, I call it.” 

At his first words the officers who accompanied him 
turned spasmodically, as if startled out of sleep by a sud- 
den noise. The sergeants and corporals followed their 
example, and the whole company paused in its march 
without receiving the wished-for ‘* Halt!” Though the 
officers cast a first look at the detachment, which was 
creeping like an elongated tortoise up the mountain of 
La Pélerine, these young men, all dragged, like many 
others, from important studies to defend their country, 


10 The Chouans. 


and in whom war had not yet smothered the sentiment 
_of art, were so much struck by the scene which lay spread 
before their eyes that they made no answer to their chief’s 
remark, the real significance of which was unknown to 
them. Though they had come from Fougtres, where 
the scene which now presented itself to their eyes is 
also visible (but with certain differences caused by the 
change of perspective), they could not resist pausing to 
admire it again, like those dilettanti who enjoy all 
music the more when familiar with its construction. 

From the summit of La Pélerine the traveller’s eye 
can range over the great valley of Couésnon, at one of 
the farthest points of which, along the horizon, lay the 
town of Fougéres. From here the oflicers could see, 
to its full extent, the basin of this intervale, as remark- 
able for the fertility of its soil as for the variety of its 
aspects. Mountains of gneiss and slate rose on all 
sides, like an amphitheatre, hiding their ruddy flanks 
behind forests of cak, and forming on their declivities 
other and lesser valleys full of dewy freshness. These 
rocky heights made a vast inclosure, circular in form, 
in the centre of which a meadow lay softly stretched, 
like the lawn of an English garden. A number of 
evergreen hedges, defining irregular pieces of property 
which were planted with trees, gave to this carpet of 
verdure a character of its own, and one that is some- 
what unusual among the landscapes of France; it held 
the teeming secrets of many beauties in its various 
contrasts, the effects of which were fine enough to 
arrest the eye of the most indifferent spectator. 

At this particular moment the scene was brightened 
by the fleeting glow with which Nature delights at 
times in heightening the beauty of her imperishable 


The Chouans. 11 


creations. While the detachment was crossing the val- 
ley, the rising sun had slowly seattered the fleecy mists 
which float above the meadows of a September morning, 
As the soldiers turned to look back, an invisible hand 
seemed to lift from the landscape the last of these veils 
——a delicate vapor, like a diaphanous gauze through 
which the glow of precious jewels excites our curiosity. 
Not a cloud could be seen on the wide horizon to mark 
by its silvery whiteness that the vast blue arch was the 
firmament; it seemed, on the contrary, a dais of silk, 
held up by the summits of the mountains and placed in 
the atmosphere, to protect that beautiful assemblage of 
fields and meadows and groves and brooks. 

The group of young officers paused to examine a 
scene so filled with natural beauties. The eyes of some 
roved among the copses, which the sterner tints of 
autumn were already enriching with their russet tones, 
contrasting the more with the emerald-green of the 
meadows in which they grew; others took note of a 
different contrast, made by the ruddy fields, where the 
buckwheat had been cut and tied in sheaves (like stands 
of arms around a bivouac), adjoining other fields of rich 
ploughed land, from which the rye was already har- 
vested. Here and there were dark slate roofs above 
which puffs of white smoke were rising. The glittering 
silver threads of the winding brooks caught the eye, 
here and there, by one of those optic lures which render 
the soul — one knows not how or why — perplexed and 
dreamy. The fragrant freshness of the autumn breeze, 
the stronger odors of the forest, rose like a waft of 
incense to the admirers of this beautiful region, who 
noticed with delight its rare wild-flowers, its vigorous 
vegetation, and its verdure, worthy of England, the 


12 The Chouans. 


very word being common to the two languages. <A few 
cattle gave life to the scene, already so dramatic. The 
birds sang, filling the valley with a sweet, vague melody 
that quivered in the air. If a quiet imagination will 
picture to itself these rich fluctuations of light and 
shade, the vaporous outline of the mountains, the mys- 
terious perspectives which were seen where the trees 
gaye an opening, or the streamlets ran, or some coquet- 
tish little glade fled away in the distance; if memory 
will color, as it were, this sketch, as fleeting as the 
moment when it was taken, the persons for whom 
such pictures are not without charm will have an im- 
perfect image of the magic scene which delighted the 
still impressionable souls of the young oflicers. 

Thinking that the poor recruits must be leaving, with 
regret, their own country and their beloved customs, to 
die, perhaps, in foreign lands, they involuntarily ex- 
cused a tardiness their feelings comprehended. ‘Then, 
with the generosity natural to soldiers, they disguised 
their indulgence under an apparent desire to examine 
into the military position of the land. But Hulot, 
whom we shall henceforth call the commandant, to 
avoid giving him the inharmonious title of ‘chief of 
a half-brigade” was one of those soldiers who, in 
critical moments, cannot be caught by the charms of 
a landscape, were they even those of a terrestrial para- 
dise. He shook his head with an impatient gesture 
and contracted the thick, black eyebrows which gaye 
so stern an expression to his face. 

‘©Why the devil don’t they come up?” he said, for 
the second time, in a hoarse voice, roughened by the 
toils of war. 

** You ask why?” replied a voice. 


The Chouans. 13 


IIearing these words, which seemed to issue from a 
horn, such as the peasants of the western valleys use to 
call their flocks, the commandant turned sharply round, 
as if pricked by a sword, and beheld, close behind him, 
a personage even more fantastic in appearance than any 
of those who were now being escorted to Mayenne to 
serve the Republic. This unknown man, short and 
thick-set in figure and broad-shouldered, had a head 
like a bull, to which, in fact, he bore more than one 
resemblance. His nose seemed shorter than it was, on 
account of the thick nostrils. His full lips, drawn from 
the teeth which were white as snow, his large and 
round black eyes with their shaggy brows, his hanging 
ears and tawny hair, — seemed to belong far less to our 
fine Caucasian race than to a breed of herbivorous 
animals. ‘The total absence of all the usual character- 
istics of the social man made that bare head still more 
remarkable. The face, bronzed by the sun (its angu- 
lar outlines presenting a sort of vague likeness to the 
granite which forms the soil of the region), was the 
only visible portion of the body of this singular being. 
From the neck down he was wrapped in a ‘* sarrau” 
or smock, a sort of russet linen blouse, coarser in 
texture than that of the trousers of the less fortu- 
nate conscripts. This “ sarrau,” in which an antiquary 
would have recognized the ‘* saye,” or the “ sayon” of 
the Gauls, ended at his middle, where it was fastened. 
to two leggings of goatskin by slivers, or thongs of 
wood, roughly cut, —some of them still covered with 
their peel or bark. These hides of the nanny-goat (to 
give them the name by which they were known to the 
peasantry) covered his legs and thighs, and masked all 
appearance of human shape. Enormous sabots hid his 


14 The Chouans. 


feet. His long and shining hair fell straight, like the 
goat’s hair, on either side of his face, being parted in 
the centre like the hair of certain statues of the Middle- 
Ages which are still to be seen in our cathedrals. In| 
place of the knotty stick which the conscripts carried 
over their shoulders, this man held against his breast, 
as though it were a musket, a heavy whip, the lash of 
which was closely braided and seemed to be twice as 
long as that of an ordinary whip. The sudden appari- 
tion of this strange being seemed easily explained. At 
first sight some of the officers took him for a recruit or 
conscript (the words were used indiscriminately) who 
had outstripped the column. But the commandant him- 
self was singularly surprised by the man’s presence; he 
showed no alarm, but lis face grew thoughtful. After 
looking the intruder well over, he repeated, mechani- 
cally, as if preoccupied with anxious thought: ‘ Yes, 
why don’t they come on? do you know, you?” 

“ Because,” said the gloomy apparition, with an accent 
which proved his difficulty in speaking French, ‘* there 
Maine begins” (pointing with his huge, rough hand 
towards Ernce), ** and Bretagne ends.” 

Then he struck the ground sharply with the handle of 
his heavy whip close to the commandant’s feet. The 
impression produced on the spectators by the laconic 
harangue of the stranger was like that of a tom-toim in 
the midst of tender music. But the word “harangue” is 
insufficient to reproduce the hatred, the desires of ven- 
geance expressed by the haughty gesture of the hand, the 
brevity of the speech, and the look of sullen and cool- 
blooded energy on the countenance of the speaker. 
The coarseness and roughness of the man, — chopped 
out, as it seemed by an axe, with his rough bark still 


The Chouans. be 


left on him,— and the stupid ignorance of his features, 
made him seem, for the moment, like some half-savage 
demigod. He stood stock-still in a prophetic attitude, 
as though he were the Genius of Brittany rising from a 
slumber of three years, to renew a war in which victory 
could only be followed by twofold mourning. 

** A pretty fellow this!” thought Hulot; “he looks 
to me like the emissary of men who mean to argue with 
their muskets.” 

Having growled these words between his teeth, the 
commandant cast his eyes in turn from the man to 
the valley, from the valley to the detachment, from the 
detachment to the steep acclivities on the right of the 
road, the ridges of which were covered with the broom 
and gorse of Brittany; then he suddenly turned them 
full on the stranger, whom he subjected to a mute 
interrogation, which he ended at last by roughly 
demanding, ** Where do you come from?” 

His eager, piercing eye strove to detect the secrets 
of that impenetrable face, which never changed from the 
vacant, torpid expression in which a peasant when 
doing nothing wraps himself. 

‘* From the country of the Gars,’ 
without showing any uneasiness. 

*¢ Your name? ” 

*¢ Marche-a-Terre.” 

‘Why do you call yourself by your Chouan name in 
defiance of the law?” 

Marche-a-Terre, to use the name he gave to himsclf, 
looked at the commandant with so genuine an air of 
stupidity that the soldicr believed the man had not 
understood hii. 

** Do you belong to the recruits from Fougéres?” 


’ 


replied the man, 


16 The Chouans. 


To this inquiry Marche-a-Terre replied by the bucolic 
**T don’t know,” the hopeless imbecility of which puts 
an end to all inquiry. He seated himself by the road- 
side, drew from his smock a few pieces of thin, black 
buckwheat-bread, — a national delicacy, the dismal de- 
lights of which none but a Breton can understand, — 
and began to eat with stolid indifference. There seemed 
such a total absence of all human intelligence about 
the man that the oflicers compared him in turn to the 
cattle browsing in the valley pastures, to the savages 
of America, or the aboriginal inhabitants of the Cape 
of Good Hope. Deceived by his behavior, the com- 
mandant himself was about to turn a deaf ear to his 
own misgivings, when, casting a last prudent glance on 
the man whom he had taken for the herald of an 
approaching carnage, he suddenly noticed that the hair, 
the smock, and the goatskin leggings of the stranger were 
full of thorns, scraps of leaves, and bits of trees and 
bushes, as though this Chouan had lately made his way 
for a long distance through thickets and underbrush. 
Hulot looked significantly at his adjutant Gérard who 
stood beside him, pressed his hand firmly, and said in a 
low voice: ‘* We came for wool, but we shall go back 
sheared.” 

The officers looked at each other silently in astonish- 
ment. 

It is necessary here to make a digression, or the fears 
of the commandment will not be intelligible to those 
stay-at-home persons who are in the habit of doubting 
everything because they have seen nothing, and who 
might therefore deny the existence of Marche-a-Terre 
and the peasantry of the West, whose conduct, in the 
times we are speaking of, was often sublime. 


The Chouans. ee 


The word ‘‘ gars” pronounced ‘‘ g” is a relic of the 
Celtic language. It has passed from low Breton imto 
French, and the word in our present speech has more 
ancient associations than any other. The ‘* gais ” was 
the principal weapon of the Gauls; ‘* gaisde” meant 
armect; ‘*eais” courage; ‘* gas,” force. The word 
has an analogy with the Latin word ‘ vir” man, the 
root of ‘* virtus” strength, courage. ‘The present dis- 
sertation is excusable as of national interest; besides, 
it may help to restore the use of such words as: “ gars, 
garcon, garconnette, garce, garcette,” now discarded 
from our speech as unseemly; whereas their origin is 
so warlike that we shall use them from time to time in 
the course of this history. ‘+ She is a famous ‘ garce’!” 
was a compliment little understood by Madame de 
Staél when it was paid to her in a little village of La 
Vendée, where she spent a few days of her exile. 

Brittany is the region in all France where the man- 
ners and customs of the Gauls have left their strongest 
imprint. That portion of the province where, even to 
our own times, the savage life and superstitious ideas 
of our rude ancestors still continue —if we may use the 
word — rampant, is called ‘+ the country of the Gars.” 
When a canton (or district) is inhabited by a number 
of half-savages like the one who has just appeared upon 
the scene, the inhabitants call them ‘‘the Gars of 
such or such a parish.” This classic name is a reward 
for the fidelity with which they struggle to preserve the 
traditions of the language and manners of their Gaelic 
ancestors; their lives show to this day many remark- 
able and deeply embedded vestiges of the beliefs and 
superstitious practices of those ancient times. Feudal 
customs are still maintained. Antiquaries find Druidic 


2 


«< 





18 The Chouans. 


monuments stil] standing. The genius of modern civil- 
ization shrinks from forcing its way through tnose 
impenetrable primordial forests. An unheard-of fero- 
ciousness, a brutal obstinacy, but also a regard for the 
sanctity of an oath; a complete ignoring of our laws, 
our customs, our dress, our modern coms, our language, 
but withal a patriarchal simplicity and virtues that are 
heroic, — unite in keeping the inhabitants of this region 
more impoverished as to all intellectual knowledge than 
the Redskins, but also as proud, as crafty, and as endur- 
ing as they. The position which Brittany occupies in the 
centre of Europe makes it more interesting to observe 
than Canada. Surrounded by light whose beneficent 
warmth never reaches it, this region is like a frozen 
coal left black in the middle of a glowing fire. The 
efforts made by several noble minds to win this glorious 
part of France, so rich in neglected treasures, to social 
life and to prosperity have all, even when sustained by 
government, come to nought against the inflexibility of 
a population given over to the habits of immemorial 
routine. This unfortunate condition is partly accounted 
for by the nature of the land, broken by ravines, moun- 
tain torrents, lakes, and marshes, and bristling with 
hedges or earth-works which make a sort of citadel 
of every field; without roads, without canals, and at 
the mercy of prejudices which scorn cur modern agri- 
culture. These will further be shown with all their 
dangers in our present history. 

The picturesque lay of the land and the superstitions 
of the inhabitants prevent the formation of communi- 
ties and the benefits arising from the exchange and 
comparison of ideas. There are no villages. The 
rickety buildings which the people call tomes are 


The Chouans. 19 


sparsely scattered through the wilderness. Each family 
lives as ina desert. ‘The only meetings among them 
are on Sundays and feast-days in the parish church. 
These silent assemblies, under the eye of the rector 
(the only ruler of these rough minds) last some hours. 
After listening to the awful words of the priest they re- 
turn to their noisome hovels for another week; they 
leave them only to work, they return to them only to 
sleep. No one ever visits them, unless it is the rector. 
Consequently, it was the voice of the priesthood which 
roused Brittany against the Republic, and sent thou- 
sands of men, five years before this history begins, to 
the support of the first Chouannerie. The brothers 
Cottereau, whose name was given to that first up- 
rising, were bold smugglers, plying their perilous 
trade between Laval and Fougéres. The insurrec- 
tions of Brittany had nothing fine or noble about them ; 
and it may be truly said that if La Vendée turned 
its brigandage into a great war, Brittany turned war 
into a brigandage. The proscription of princes, the 
destruction of religion, far from inspiring great sactri- 
fices, were to the Chouans pretexts for mere pillage ; 
and the events of this intestine warfare had all the 
savage moroseness of their own natures. When the 
real defenders of the monarchy came to recruit men 
among these ignorant and violent people they vainly 
tried to give, for the honor of the white flag, some 
grandeur to the enterprises which had hitherto rendered 
the brigands odious: the Chouans remain in history as 
a memorable example of the danger of uprousing the 
uncivilized masses of the nation. 

The sketch here made ofa Breton valley and of the 
Breton men in the detachment of recruits, more espe- 


20 The Chouans. 


cially that of the ‘‘ gars” who so suddenly appeared on 
the summit of Mont Pelerine, gives a brief but faithful 
picture of the province and its inhabitants. A trained 
imagination can by the help of these details obtain 
some idea of the theatre of the war and of the men who 
were its instruments. The flowering hedges of the 
beautiful valleys concealed the combatants. Each field 
was a fortress, every tree an ambush; the hollow trunk 
of each old willow hid a stratagem. The place fora 
fight was everywhere. Sharpshooters were lurking at 
every turn for the Blues, whom laughing young girls, 
unmindful of their perfidy, attracted within range, — 
for had they not made pilgrimages with their fathers 
and their brothers, imploring to be taught wiles, and re- 
ceiving absolution from their wayside Virgins of rotten 
wood? Religion, or rather the fetichism of these igno- 
rant creatures, absolved. such murders of remorse. 

Thus, when the struggle had once begun, every part 
of the country was dangerous, —in fact, all things 
were full of peril, sound as well as silence, attraction 
as well as fear, the family hearth or the open country. 
Treachery was everywhere, but it was treachery from 
conviction. The people were savages serving God and 
the King after the fashion of Red Indians. To make 
this sketch of the struggle exact and true at all points, the 
historian must add that the moment Hoche had signed 
his peace the whole country subsided into smiles and 
friendliness. Families who were rending each other to 
pieces over night, were supping together without danger 
the next day. 

The very moment that Commandant Hulot became 
aware of the secret treachery betrayed by the hairy skins 
of Marche-a-Terre, he was convinced that this peace, 


The Chouans. ral 


due to the genius of Hoche, the stability of which he 
had always doubted, was at an end. The civil war, he 
felt, was about to be renewed, — doubtless more terrible 
than ever after a cessation of three years. The Revo- 
lution, mitigated by the events of the 9th Thermidor, 
would doubtless return to the old terrors which had 
made it odious to sound minds. English gold would, 
as formerly, assist in the national discords. The Re- 
public, abandoned by young Bonaparte who had seemed 
to be its tutelary genius, was no longer in a condition 
to resist its enemies from without and from within, — 
the worst and most cruel of whom were the last to 
appear. The Civil War, already threatened by various 
partial risings, would assume a new and far more 
serious aspect if the Chouans were now to attack so 
strong an escort. Such were the reflections that filled 
the mind of the commander (though less succinctly 
formulated) as soon as he perceived, in the condition of 
Marche-a-Terre’s clothing, the signs of an ambush care- 
fully planned. 

The silence which followed the prophetic. remark of 
the commandant to Gérard gave Hulot time to recover 
his self-possession. The old soldier had been shaken. 
He could not hinder his brow from clouding as he felt 
himself surrounded by the horrors of a warfare the 
atrocities of which would have shamed even cannibals. 
Captain Merle and the adjutant Gérard could not ex- 
plain to themselves the evident dread on the face of 
their leader as he looked at Marche-a-Terre eating his 
bread by the side of the road. But Hulot’s face soon 
cleared ; he began to rejoice in the opportunity to fight 
for the Republic, and he joyously vowed to escape 
being the dupe of the Chouans, and to fathom the wily 


ps The Chouans. 


and impenetrable being whom they had done him the 
honor to employ against him. 

Before taking any resolution he set himself to study 
the position in which it was evident the enemy intended 
to surprise him. Observing that the road where the 
column had halted was about to pass through a sort of 
gorge, short to be sure, but flanked with woods from 
which several paths appeared to issue, he frowned 
heavily, and said to his two friends, in a low voice of 
some emotion : — 

‘¢We’re in a devil of a wasp’s-nest.” 

“What do you fear?” asked Gérard. 

‘Fear? Yes, that’s it, fear,” returned the com- 
mandant. “Ihave always had a fear of being shot like 
a dog at the edge of a wood, without a chance of crying 
out ‘Who goes there?’ ” 

*¢ Pooh!” said Merle, laughing, “ ‘Who goes there’ 
is all humbug.” 

‘*Are we in any real danger?” asked Gérard, as 
much surprised by Hulot’s coolness as he was by his 
evident alarm. 

‘* Hush!” said the commandant, in a low voice. 
‘We are in the jaws of the wolf; it is as dark as a 
pocket; and we must get some light. Luckily, we ’ve 
got the upper end of the slope!” 

So saying, he moved, with his two officers, in a way 
to surround Marche-a-Terre, who rose quickly, pre- 
tending to think himself in the way. 

‘¢ Stay where you are, vagabond!” said Hulot, keep- 
ing his eye on the apparently indifferent face of the 
Breton, and giving him a push which threw him back 
on the place where he had heen sitting. 

* Friends,” continued Ifulot, in a low voice, speak- 


, . The Chouans. ae 


ing to the two officers. ‘‘It is time I should tell you 
that it is all up with the army in Paris. The Directory, 
in consequence of a disturbance in the Assembly, has 
made another clean sweep of our affairs. Those pen- 
tarchs, — puppets, I call them, —those directors have 
just lost a good blade ; Bernadotte has abandoned them.” 

‘¢ Who will take his place?” asked Gérard, eagerly. 

‘* Milet-Mureau, an old blockhead. <A pretty time to 
choose to let fools sail the ship! English rockets from 
all the headlands, and those cursed Chouan cockchafers 
in the air! You may rely upon it that some one behind 
those puppets pulled the wire when they saw we were 
getting the worst of it.” 

‘¢ How getting the worst of it?” 

“ Our armies are beaten at all points,” replied Hulot, 
sinking his voice still lower. ‘* The Chouans have inter- 
cepted two couriers; I only received my despatches and 
last orders by a private messenger sent by Bernadotte 
just as he was leaving the ministry. Luckily, friends have 
written me confidentially about this crisis. Fouché has 
discovered that the tyrant Louis XVIII. has been ad- 
vised by traitors in Paris to send a leader to his follow- 
ersin La Vendée. It is thought that Barras is betraying 
the Republic. At any rate, Pitt and the princes have 
sent a man, a ci-devant, vigorous, daring, full of talent, 
who intends, by uniting the Chouans with the Vendeans, 
to pluck the cap of liberty from the head of the Repub- 
lic. The fellow has lately landed in the Morbihan; I 
was the first to hear of it, and I sent the news to those 
knaves in Paris. ‘The Gars’ is the name he goes by. 
All those beasts, ‘he added, pointing to Marche-a-Terre,’ 
stick on names which would give a stomach-ache to 
honest patriots if they bore them. The Gars is now in 


24 The Chouans. 


this district. The presence of that fellow’ — and again — 
he signed to Marche. a-Terre — ‘‘ as good as tells me he 
is on our back. But they can’t teach an old monkey 
to make faces; and you’ve got to help me to get my 
birds safe into their cage, and as quick as a flash too. 
A pretty fool I should be if I allowed that ci-devant, 
who dares to come from London with his British gold, 
to trap me like a crow!” 

On learning these secret circumstances, and_ being 
well aware that their leader was never unnecessarily 
alarmed, the two officers saw the dangers of the posi- 
tion. Gérard was about to ask some questions on the 
political state of Paris, some details of which Hulot had 
evidently passed over in silence, but a sign from his 
commander stopped him, and once more drew the eyes 
of all three to the Chouan. Marche-a-Terre gave no 
sign of disturbance at being watched. ‘The curiosity of 
the two officers, who were new to this species of warfare, 
was greatly excited by this beginning of an atfair which 
seemed to have an almost romantic interest, and they 
began to joke aboutit. But Ifulot stopped them at once. 

**God’s thunder!” he eried. ‘* Don’t smoke upon 
the powder-cask ; wasting courage for nothing is like 
carrying water ina basket. Gérard,” he added, in the 
ear of his adjutant, ‘* get nearer, by degrees, to that 
fellow, and watch him; at the first suspicious action 
put your sword through him. As for me, I must take 
measures to carry on the ball if our unseen adversaries 
choose to open it.” 

The Chouan paid no attention to the movements of 
the young officer, and continued to play with his whip, 
and fling out the lash of it as though he were fishing in 
the ditch. 


The Chouans. pass 


Meantime the commandant was saying to Merle, in 
a low voice: “Give ten picked men to a sergeant, and 
post them yourself above us on the summit of this slope, 
just where the path widens to a ledge; there you ought 
to see the whole length of the route to Ernée. Chouuse 
a position where the road is not flanked by woods, and 
where the sergeant can overlook the country. ‘Take 
Clef-des-Ceeurs; he is very intelligent. This is no 
laughing matter; I wouldn’t give a farthing for our 
skins if we don’t turn the odds in our favor at once.” 

While Merle was executing this order with a rapidity 
of which he fully understood the importance, the com- 
mandant waved his right hand to enforce silence on the 
soldiers, who were standing at ease, and laughing and 
joking around him. With another gesture he ordered 
them to take up arms. When quiet was restored he 
turned his eyes from one end of the road to the other, 
listened with anxious attention as though he hoped to 
detect some stifled sound, some echo of weapons, or 
steps which might give warning of the expected attack. 
His black eye seemed to pierce the woods to an extraor- 
dinary depth. Perceiving no indications of danger, he 
next consulted, like a savage, the ground at his feet, 
to discover, if possible, the trail of the invisible enemies 
whose daring was well known to him. Desperate at 
seeing and hearing nothing to justify his fears, he turned 
aside from the road and ascended, not without difliculty, 
one or two hillocks. ‘The other officers and the soldiers, 
observing the anxiety of a leader in whom they trusted 
and whose worth was known to them, knew that his 
extreme watchfulness meant danger; but not suspect- 
ing its imminence, they merely stood still and held their 
breaths by instinct. Like dogs endeavoring to guess 


26 The Chouans. 


the intentions of a huntsman, whose orders are incompre- 
hensible to them though they faithfully obey him, the 
soldiers gazed in turn at the valley, at the woods by the 
roadside, at the stern face of their leader, endeavoring 
to read their fate. They questioned each other with 
their eyes, and more than one smile ran from lip to lip. 

When Hulot returned to his men with an anxious 
look, Beau-Pied, a young sergeant who passed for the 
wit of his company, remarked in a low voice: ‘* Where 
the deuce have we poked ourselves that an old trooper 
like Hulot should pull such a gloomy face? He’s as 
solemn as a council of war.” 

Hulot gave the speaker a stern look, silence being 
ordered in the ranks. In the hush that ensued, the 
lagging steps of the conscripts on the creaking sand of 
the road produced a recurrent sound which added a sort 
of vague emotion to the general excitement. This inde- 
finable feeling can be understood only by those who 
have felt their hearts beat in the silence of the mght 
from a painful expectation heightened by some noise, 
the monotonous recurrence of which seems to distil 
terror into their minds, drop by drop. 

The thought of the commandant, as he returned to 
his men, was: ‘**Can I be mistaken?” He glanced, 
with a concentrated anger which flashed like lightning 
from his eyes, at the stolid, immovable Chouan ; a look 
of savage irony which he fancied he detected in the 
man’s eyes, warned him not to relax in his precautions. 
Just then Captain Merle, haying obeyed Hulot’s orders, 
returned to his side. 

“We did well, captain,” said the commandant, ‘to 
put the few men whose patriotism we can count upon 
among those conscripts at the rear. Take a dozen more 


The Chouans. oF 


of our own bravest fellows, with sub-lieutenant Lebrun 
at their head, and make a rear-guard of them; they ’Il 
support the patriots who are there already, and help to 
shove on that flock of birds and close up the distance 
between us. I’ll wait for you.” 

The captain disappeared. The commander’s eye 
singled out four men on whose intelligence and quick- 
ness he knew he might rely, and he beckoned to them, 
silently, with the well-known friendly gesture of moving 
the right forefinger rapidly and repeatedly toward the 
nose. They came to him. 

‘* You served with me under Hoche,” he said, ** when 
we brought to reason those brigands who call them- 
selves ‘Chasseurs du Roi;’ you know how they hid 
themselves to swoop down on the Blues.” 

At this commendation of their intelligence the four 
soldiers nodded with significant grins. Their hero- 
ically martial faces wore that look of careless resignation 
to fate which evidenced the fact that since the struggle 
had begun between France and Europe, the ideas of the 
private soldiers had never passed beyond the cartridge- 
boxes on their backs or the bayonets in front of them. 
With their lips drawn together like a purse when the 
strings are tightened, they looked at their commander 
attentively with inquiring eyes. 

‘* You know,” continued Hulot, who possessed the 
art of speaking picturesquely as soldier to soldiers, 
‘*that it won’t do for old hares like us to be caught 
napping by the Chouans. —of whom there are plenty 
all round us, or my name’s not Hulot. You four are 
to march in advance and beat up both sides of this 
road. The detachment will hang fire here. Keep 
your eyes about you; don’t get picked off; and bring 
me news of what you find — quick!” 


28 The Chouans. 


So saying he waved his hand towards the suspected 
heights along the road. The four men, by way of 
thanks raised the backs of their hands to their battered 
old three-cornered hats, discolored by rain and ragged 
with age, and bent their bodies double. One of them, 
named Larose, a corporal well-known to Hulot, re- 
marked as he clicked his musket: ‘* We’ll play ’em a 
tune on the clarinet, commander.” 

They started, two to right and two to left of the 
road; and it was not without some excitement that 
their comrades watched them disappear. The com- 
mandant himself feared that he had sent them to their 
deaths, and an involuntary shudder seized him as he 
saw the last of them. Officers and soldiers listened 
to the gradually lessening sound of their footsteps, with 
feelings all the more acute because they were carefully 
hidden. There are occasions when the risk of four 
lives causes more excitement and alarm than all the 
slain at Jemmapes. The faces of those trained to war 
have such various and fugitive expressions that a 
painter who has to describe them is forced to appeal to 
the recollections of soldiers and to leave civilians to 
imagine these dramatic figures; for scenes so rich in 
detail cannot be rendered in writing, except at inter- 
minable length. 

Just as the bayonets of the four men were finally lost 
to sight, Captain Merle returned, having executed the 
comimander’s orders with rapidity. Hulot, with two or 
three sharp commands, put his troop in line of battle and 
ordered if to return to the summit of La Peélerine where 
his little advanced-guard were stationed; walking last 
himself and looking backward to note any changes that 
might occur in a scene which Nature had made so 


a 


The Chouans. 29 


lovely, and man so terrible. As he reached the spot 
where he had left the Chouan, Marche-a-Terre, who had 
seen with apparent indifference the various movements 
of the commander, but was now watching with extraor- 
dinary inteiligence the two soldiers in the woods to the 
right, suddenly gave the shrill and piercing cry of the 
chouette, or screech-owl. The three famous smugglers 
already mentioned were in the habit of using the vari- 
ous intonations of this cry to warn each other of danger 
or of any event that might concern them. From this 
came the nickname of ** Chuin” which means chowette 
or owl in the dialect of that region. This corrupted 
word came finally to mean the whole body of those 
who, in the first uprising, imitated the tactics and the 
signals of the smugglers. 

When Hulot heard that suspicious sound he stopped 
short and examined the man intently; then he feigned 
to be taken in by his stupid air, wishing to keep him 
by him as a barometer which might indicate the move- 
ments of the enemy. He therefore checked Gérard, 
whose hand was on his sword to despatch him; but he 
placed two soldiers beside the man he now felt to be a 
spy, and ordered them in a loud, clear voice to shoot 
him at the next sound he made. In spite of his immi- 
nent danger Marche-a-Terre showed not the slightest 
emotion. The commandant, who was studying him, 
took note of this apparent insensibility, and remarked 
to Gérard: “ That fool is not so clever as he means to 
be! Itis far from easy to read the face of a Chouan, 
but the fellow betrays himself by his anxiety to show 
his nerve. Ha! ha! if he had only pretended fear I 
should have taken him for a stupid brute. He and I 
might have made a pair! I came very near falling into 


30 The Chouans. 


the trap. Yes, we shall undoubtedly be attacked; but 
let ‘em come; I’m all ready now.” 

As he said these words in a low voice, rubbing his 
hands with an air of satisfaction, he looked at the 
Chouan with a jeering eye. Then he crossed his arms 
on his breast and stood in the road with his favorite 
officers beside him awaiting the result of his arrange- 
ments. Certain that a fight was at hand, he looked at 
his men composedly. 

‘¢ There ‘ll be a row,” said Beau-Pied to his com- 
rades in a low voice. ‘* See, the commandant is rub- 
bing his hands.” 

In critical situations like that in which the detachment 
and its commander were now placed, life is so clearly at 
stake that men of nerve make it a point of honor to 
show coolness and self-possession. ‘These are the mo- 
ments in which to judge men’s souls. The command- 
ant, better informed of the danger than his two officers, 
took pride in showing his tranquillity. With bis eyes 
moving from Marche-a-Terre to the road and thence to 
the woods he stood expecting, not without dread, a gen- 
eral volley from the Chouans, whom he believed to be 
hidden like brigands all around him; but his face re- 
mained impassible. Knowing that the eyes of the 
soldiers were turned upon him, he wrinkled his brown 
cheeks pitted with the small-pox, screwed his upper lip, 
and winked his right eye, a grimace always taken for 
a smile by his men; then he tapped Gérard on the 
shoulder and said: ‘* Now that things are quict tell me 
what you wanted to say just now.” 

‘*] wanted to ask what this new crisis means, com- 
mandant?”’ was the reply. 

‘It is not new,” said Hulot. ** All Europe is 


The Chouans. OL 


against us, and this time she has got the whip hand. 
While those Directors are fighting together like horses 
in a stable without any oats, and letting the government 
go to bits, the armies are left without supplies or rein- 
forcements. We are getting the worst of it in Italy; 
we’ve evacuated Mantua after a series of disasters on 
the Trebia, and Joubert has just lost a battle at Novi. 
I only hope Masscéna may be able to hold the Swiss 
passes against Suwarrow. We’re done for on the Rhine, 
The Directory have sent Moreau. The question is, Can 
he defend the frontier? I hope he may, but the Coali- 
tion will end by invading us, and the only general able 
to save the nation is, unluckily, down in that devilish 
Egypt; and how is he ever to get back, with England 
mistress of the Mediterranean?” 

‘* Bonaparte’s absence does n’t trouble me, command- 
ant,” said the young adjutant Gérard, whose intelligent 
mind had been developed by a fine education. “Iam 
certain the Revolution cannot be brought to naught. 
Ha! we soldiers have a double mission, — not merely to 
defend French territory, but to preserve the national 
soul, the generous principles of liberty, independence, 
the rights of human reason awakened by our Assemblies 
and gaining strength, as I believe, from day to day. 
France is like a traveller bearing a light: he protects 
it with one hand, and defends himself with the other. 
If your news is true, we have never for the last ten 
years been so surrounded with people trying to blow 
it out. Principles and nation are in danger of perishing 
together.” 

‘¢ Alas, yes,” said Hulot, sighing, ‘‘ Those clowns 
of Directors have managed to quarrel with all the men 
who could sail the ship. Bernadotte, Carnot, all of 


32 The Chouans. 


them, even Talleyrand, have deserted us. There’s not 
a single good patriot left, except friend Fouché, who 
holds ’em through the police. There’s a man for you! 
It was he who warned me of the coming insurrection ; 
and here we are, sure enough, caught in a trap.” 

“If the army doesn’t take things in hand and 
manage the government,” said Gérard, “ those law- 
yers in Paris will put us back just where we were be- 
fore the Revolution. A parcel of ninnies! what do they 
know about governing? ” 

‘¢T’m always afraid they ‘ll treat with the Bourbons,” 
said Hulot. ‘* Thunder! if they did that a pretty pass 
we should be in, we soldiers! ” 

‘¢ No, no, commandant, it won't come to that,” said 
Gérard. ‘' The army, as you say, will raise its voice, 
and — provided it does n’t choose its words from Piche- 
gru’s vocabulary —I am persuaded we haye not hacked 
ourselves to pieces for the last ten years merely to ma- 
nure the flax and let others spin the thread.” 

‘¢ Well,” interposed Captain Merle, *‘ what we have 
to do now is to act as good patriots and prevent the 
Chouans from communicating with La Vendée ; for, if 
they once come to an understanding and England gets 
her finger into the pie, I would n’t answer for the cap of 
the Republic, one and indivisible.” 

As he spoke the ery of an owl, heard at a distance, 
interrupted the conversation. Again the commander 
examined Marche-a-Terre. whose impassible face still 
gave no sign. The conscripts, their ranks closed up 
by an officer, now stood like a herd of cattle in the road, 
about a hundred feet distant from the escort, which was 
drawn up in line of battle. Behind them stood the 
rear-guard of soldiers and patriots, picked men, com- 


The Chouans. iba 


manded by Lieutenant Lebrun. Hulot cast his eyes 
over this arrangement of his forces and looked again at 
the picket of men posted in advance upon the road. 
Satisfied with what he saw he was about to give the order 
to march, when the tricolor cockades of the two soldiers 
he had sent to beat the woods to the left caught his eye ; 
he waited therefore till the two others, who had gone to 
the right, should reappear. 

‘* Perhaps the ball will open over there,” he said to 
his oflicers, pointing to the woods from which the two 
men did not emerge. 

While the first two made their report Hulot’s atten- 
tion was distracted momentarily from Marche-a-Terre. 
The Chouan at once sent his owl’s-cry to an apparently 
vast distance, and before the men who guarded him 
could raise their muskets and take aim he had struck 
them a blow with his whip which felled them, and 
rushed away. A terrible discharge of fire-arms from 
the woods just above the place where the Chouan had 
been sitting brought down six or eight soldiers. 
Marche-a-Terre, at whom several men had fired with- 
out touching him, vanished into the woods after climb- 
ing the slope with the agility of a wild-cat; as he did 
so his sabots rolled into the ditch and his feet were 
seen to be shod with the thick, hobnailed shoes always 
worn by the Chouans. 

At the first cries uttered by the Chouans, the con- 
scripts sprang into the woods to the right like a flock of 
birds taking flight at the approach of a man. 

‘* Fire on those scoundrels!” cried Hulot. 

The company fired, but the conscripts knew well how 
to shelter themselves behind trees, and before the 
soldiers could reload they were out of sight. 

3 


34 The Chouans. 


‘¢What’s the use of decreeing levies in the depart. 
ments?” said Hulot. ‘+ It is only such idiots as the 
Directory who would expect any good of a draft in this 
region. The Assembly had much better stop voting 
more shoes and money and munitions, and see that we 
get what belongs to us.” 

At this moment the two skirmishers sent out on the 
right were seen returning with evident difficulty. The 
one that was least wounded supported his comrade, 
whose blood was moistening the earth. The two poor 
fellows were half-way down the slope when Marche-a- 
Terre showed his ugly face, and took so true an aim 
that both Blues fell together and rolled heavily into the 
ditch. The Chouan’s monstrous head was no sooner 
seen than thirty muzzles were levelled at him, but, like 
a figure in a pantomime, he disappeared in a second 
among the tufts of gorse. These events, which have 
taken so many words to tell, happened instantaneously, 
and in another moment the rear-guard of patriots and 
soldiers joined the main body of the escort. 

‘¢ Forward!” cried IHulot. 

The company moved quickly to the higher and more 
open ground on which the picket guard was already 
stationed. There, the commander formed his troop 
once more in line of battle; but. as the Chouans made 
no further hostile demonstrations, he began to think 
that the deliverance of the conscripts might have been 
the sole object of the ambuscade. 

‘*'Their cries,” he said to his two friends, ‘* prove 
that they are not nuincrous. We'll advance ata quick 
step, and possibly we may be able to reach Erncée 
without getting them on our backs.” 

These words were overheard by one of the patriot 


The Chouans. 35 


conscripts, who stepped from the ranks, and said 
respectfully : — 

‘¢General, I have already fought the Chouans; may 
I be allowed a word?” 

“A lawyer,” whispered Hulot to Merle. ‘* They 
always want to harangue. Argue away,” he said to 
the young man. 

‘General, the Chouans have no doubt brought arms 
for those escaped recruits. Now, if we try to outmarch 
them, they will catch us in the woods and shoot every 
one of us before we can get to Ernée. We must argue, 
as you call it, with cartridges. During the skirmish, 
which will last more time than you think for, some of 
us ought to go back and fetch the National Guard and 
the militia from Fougeres.” 

‘*Then you think there are a good many Chouans?” 

** Judge for yourself, citizen commander.” 

He led Hulot to a place where the sand had been 
stirred as with a rake; then he took him to the open- 
ing of a wood-path, where the leaves were scattered 
and trampled into the earth, — unmistakable signs of 
the passage of a large body of men. 

‘¢ Those were the ‘gars’ from Vitré,” said the man, 
who came himself from Fougeres; ‘‘they are on their 
way to Lower Normandy.” 

‘¢ What is your name?” asked Hulot. 

** Gudin, commander.” 

‘* Well, then, Gudin, I make you a corporal. You 
seem to me trustworthy. Select a man to send to 
Fougeres ; but stay yourself by me. In the first place, 
however, take two or three of your comrades and bring 
in the muskets and ammunition of the poor fellows 
those brigands have rolled into the ditch. These 


36 The Chouans. 


Bretons,” added Hulot to Gérard, “will make famous 
infantry if they take to rations.” 

_ Gudin’s emissary started on a run to Fougéres by a 
wood-road to the left; the soldiers looked to their arms, 
and awaited an attack; the commandant passed along 
their line, smiling to them, and then placed himself, 
with his officers, a little in front of it. Silence fell 
once more, but it was of short duration. Three hundred 
or more Chouans, their clothing identical with that of 
the late recruits, burst from the woods to the right with 
actual howls and planted themselves, without any sem- 
blance of order, on the road directly in front of the feeble 
detachment of the Blues. The commandant thereupon 
ranged his soldiers in two equal parts, each with a front 
of ten men. Between them, he placed the twelve re- 
cruits, to whom he hastily gave arms, putting himself 
at their head. This little centre was protected by the 
two wings, of twenty-five men each, which mancuvred 
on either side the road under the orders of Merle and 
Gérard ; their object being to catch the Chouans on the 
flank and prevent them from posting themselves as 
sharp-shooters among the trees, where they could pick 
off the Blues without risk to themselves; for in these 
wars the Republican troops never knew where to look 
for an enemy. 

These arrangements, hastily made, gave confidence 
to the soldiers, and they advanced in silence upon the 
Chouans. At the end of a few seconds each side fired, 
with the loss of several men. At this moment the two 
wings of the Republicans, to whom the Chouans had 
nothing to oppose, came upon their flanks, and, with a 
close, quick volley, sent death and disorder among 
the enemy. This mancuvre very nearly equalized the 


The Chouans. or 


numerical strength of the two parties. But the Chouan 
nature was so intrepid, their will so firm, that they did 
not give way; their losses scarcely staggered them ; 
they simply closed up and attempted to surround the 
dark and well-formed little party of the Blues, which 
covered so little ground that it looked from a distance 
like a queen-bee surrounded by the swarm. 

The Chouans might have carried the day at this 
moment if the two wings commanded by Merle and 
Gérard had not succeeded in getting in two volleys 
which took them diagonally on their rear. The Blues 
of the two wings ought to have remained in position 
and continued to pick off in this way their terrible ene- 
mies; but excited by the danger of their little main 
body, then completely surrounded by the Chouans, they 
flung themselves headlong into the road with fixed 
bayonets and made the battle even for a few moments. 
Both sides fought with a stubbornness intensified by the 
cruelty and fury of the partisan spirit which made this 
war exceptional. Each man, observant of danger, was 
silent. ‘The scene was gloomy and cold as death itself. 
Nothing was heard through the clash of arms and the 
grinding of the sand under foot but the moans and 
exclamations of those who fell, either dead or badly 
wounded. The twelve loyal recruits in the republican 
main body protected the commandant (who was guid- 
ing his men and giving orders) with such courage that 
more than once several of the soldiers called out 
‘¢ Bravo, conscripts ! ” 

Hulot, imperturbable and with an eye to everything, 
presently remarked among the Chouans a man who, 
like himself, was evidently surrounded by picked men, 
and was therefore, no doubt, the leader of the attacking 


38 The Chouans. 


party. He was anxious to see this man distinctly, and 
he made many efforts to distinguish his features, but in 
vain; they were hidden by the red caps and broad- 
brimmed hats of those about him. Hulot did, however, 
see Marche-a-Terre beside this leader, repeating his 
orders in a hoarse voice, his own carbine, meanwhile, 
being far from inactive. The commandant grew im- 
patient at being thus baffled. Waving his sword, he 
urged on the recruits and charged the centre of the 
Chouans with such fury that he broke through their 
line and came close to their chief, whose face, however, 
was still hidden by a broad-brimmed felt hat with a 
white cockade. But the invisible leader, surprised at 
so bold an attack, retreated a step or two and raised 
his hat abruptly, thus enabling Hulot to get a hasty 
idea of his appearance. 

He was young,— Hulot thought him to be about 
twenty-five; he wore a hunting-jacket of green cloth, 
and a white belt containing pistols. His heavy shoes 
were hobnailed like those of the Chouans; leather leg- 
gings came to his knees covering the ends of his 
breeches of very coarse drilling, and completing a cos- 
tume which showed off a slender and well-poised figure 
of medium height. Furious that the Blues should thus 
have approached him, he pulled his hat again over his 
face and sprang towards them. But he was instantly 
surrounded by Marche-a-Terre and several Chouans. 
Hulot thought he perceived between the heads which 
clustered about this young leader, a broad red ribbon 
worn across his chest. The eyes of the commandant, 
caught by this royal decoration (then almost forgotten 
by republicans), turned quickly to the young man’s face, 
which, however, he soon lost sight of under the ne- 


The Chouans. 39 


cessity of controlling and protecting his own little troop. 
Though he had barely time to notice a pair of brilliant 
eyes (the color of which escaped him), fair hair and 
delicate features bronzed by the sun, he was much 
struck by the dazzling whiteness of the neck, relieved 
by a black cravat carelessly knotted. The fiery atti- 
tude of the young leader proved him to be a soldier of 
the stamp of those who bring a certain conventional 
poesy into battle. His well-gloved hand waved above 
his head a sword which gleamed in the sunlight. His 
whole person gave an impression both of elegance and 
strength. An air of passionate selfdevotion, enhanced 
by the charms of youth and distinguished manners, 
made this émigré a graceful image of the French no- 
blesse. We presented a strong contrast to Hulot, who, 
ten feet distant from him, was quite as vivid an image 
of the vigorous Republic for which the old soldier was 
fighting; his stern face, his well-worn blue uniform 
with its shabby red facings and its blackened epaulettes 
hanging back of his shoulders, being visible signs of its 
needs and character. 

The graceful attitude and expression of the young 
man were not lost on the commandant, who exclaimed 
as he pressed towards him: ‘* Come on, opera-dancer, 
come on, and let me crush you!” 

The royalist leader, provoked by his momentary dis- 
advantage, advanced with an angry movement, but at 
the same moment the men who were about him rushed 
forward and flung themselves with fury on the Blues. 
Suddenly a soft, clear voice was heard above the din 
of battle saying: ‘* Here died Saint-Leseure! Shall 
we not avenge him?” 

At the magic words the efforts of the Chouans be- 


40 The Chouans. 


came terrible, and the soldiers of the Republic had great 
difficulty in maintaining themselves without breaking 
their little line of battle. 

“If he wasn’t a young man,” thought Hulot, as he 
retreated step by step, ‘t we shouldn't have been at- 
tacked in this way. Who ever heard of the Chouans 
fighting an open battle? Well, all the better! they 
won't shoot us off like dogs along the road.” Then, 
raising his voice till it echoed through the woods, he 
exclaimed: **‘ Come on, my men! Shall we let our- 
selves be fooled by those brigands?”’ 

The word here given is but a feeble equivalent of the 
one the brave commander used; but every veteran can 
substitute the real one, which was far more soldierly in 
character. 

“Gérard! Merle!” added Hulot, ‘* call in your men, 
form them into a battalion, take the rear, fire upon 
those dogs, and let’s make an end of this!” 

The order was diflicult to obey, for the young chief, 
hearing Hulot’s voice, cricd out: ** By Saint Anne of 
Auray, don’t let them get away! Spread out, spread out, 
my lads!” and each of the two wings of the Blues was 
followed by Chouans who were fully as obstinate and 
far superior in numbers. The Republicans were sur- 
rounded on all sides by the Goatskins uttering their 
savage cries, which were more like howls. 

‘* Told your tongues, gentlemen,” cried Beau-Pied ; 
** we can’t hear ourselves be killed.” 

This jest revived the courage of the Blues. Instead 
of fighting only at one point, the Republicans spread 
themselves to three different points on the table-land 
of La Pelerine, and the rattle of musketry woke all the 
echoes of the valleys, hitherto su peaceful beneath it. 


The Chouans. 41 


Victory might have remained doubtful for many hours, 
or the fight might have come to an end for want of 
combatants, for Blues and Chouans were equally brave 
and obstinate. Each side was growing more and more 
incensed, when the sound of a drum in the distance told 
that a body of men must be crossing the valley of 
Couésnon. 

‘¢There’s the National Guard of Fougéres!” cried 
Gudin, in a loud voice; ** my man has brought them.” 

The words reached the ears of the young leader of the 
Chouans and his ferocious aide-de-camp, and the royal- 
ists made a hasty retrograde movement, checked, how- 
ever, by a brutal shout from Marche-a-Terre. After 
two or three orders given by the leader in a low voice, 
and transmitted by Marche-i-Terre in the Breton dialect, 
the Chouans made good their retreat with a cleverness 
which disconcerted the Republicans and even the com- 
mandant. At the first word of command they formed 
in line, presenting a good front, behind which the 
wounded retreated, and the others reloaded their guns. 
Then, suddenly, with the agility already shown by 
Marche-a-Terre, the wounded were taken over the brow 
of the eminence to the right of the road, while half 
the others followed them slowly to occupy the summit, 
where nothing could be seen of them by the Blues but 
their bold heads. There they made a rampart of the 
trees and pointed the muzzles of their guns on the Re- 
publicans, who were rapidly reformed under reiterated 
orders from Hulot and turned to face the remainder of 
the Chouans, who were still before them in the road. 
The latter retreated slowly, disputing the ground and 
wheeling so as to bring themselves under cover of their 
comrades’ fire. When they reached the broad ditch 


492 The Chouans. 


which bordered the road, they scaled the high bank on 
the other side, braving the fire of the Republicans, 
which was sufliciently well-directed to fill the ditch with 
dead bodies. The Chouans already on the summit 
answered with a fire that was no less deadly. At that 
moment the National Guard of Fougtres reached the 
scene of action at a quick step, and its mere presence 
put an end to the affair. The Guard and some of the 
soldiers crossed the road and began to enter the woods, 
but the commandant called to them in his martial voice, 
** Do you want to be annihilated over there?” 

The victory remained to the Republicans, though not 
without heavy loss. All the battered old hats were 
hung on the points of the bayonets and the muskets 
held aloft, while the soldiers shouted with one voice: 
‘* Vive la République!” Even the wounded, sitting 
by the roadside, shared in the general enthusiasm ; 
and Hulot, pressing Gérard’s hand, exclaimed : — 

‘¢ Ha, ha! those are what I call veterans /” 

Merle was directed to bury the dead in a ravine; 
while another party of men attended to the removal of 
the wounded. The carts and horses of the neighboring 
farmers were put into requisition, and the suffering men 
were carefully laid on the clothing of the dead. Before 
the little column started, the National Guard of Fou- 
geres turned over to Hulot a Chouan, dangerously 
wounded, whom they had captured at the foot of the 
slope up which his comrades had escaped, and where 
he had fallen from weakness. 

‘*Thanks for your help, citizens,” said the com- 
mandant. ‘*God’s thunder! if it hadn’t been for 
you, we should have had a pretty bad quarter of an 
hour. Take care of yourselves; the war has begun. 


The Chouans. 43 


Adieu, friends.”” Then, turning to the prisoner, he 
asked, ** What’s the name of your general?” 

‘The Gars.” 

‘Who? Marche-a-Terre?” 

‘6 No, the Gars.” 

‘¢ Where does the Gars come from?” 

To this question the prisoner, whose face was con- 
vulsed with suffering, made no reply; he took out his 
beads and began to say his prayers. 

‘* The Gars is no doubt that young ci-devant with the 
black cravat,— sent by the tyrant and his allies Pitt 
and Coburg.” 

At these words the Chouan raised his head proudly 
and said: ‘* Sent by God and the king!” He uttered 
the words with an energy which exhausted his strength. 
The commandant saw the difficulty of questioning a 
dying man, whose countenance expressed his gloomy 
fanaticism, and he turned away his head with a frown. 
Two soldiers, friends of those whom Marche-a-Terre 
had so brutally killed with the butt of his whip, stepped 
back a pace or two, took aim at the Chouan, whose 
fixed eyes did not blink at the muzzles of their guns, 
fired at short range, and brought him down. When 
they approached the body to strip it, the dying man 
found strength to cry out loudly, ‘* Vive le roi!” 

‘¢Yes, yes, you canting hypocrite,” cried Clef-des- 
Cours; ‘*go and make your report to that Virgin of 
yours. Didn’t he shout in our faces, ‘ Vive le roi!’ 
when we thought him cooked?” 

‘** Here are his papers. commandant,” said Beau-Pied. 

‘* Ho! ho!” eried Clef-des-Coeurs. ‘* Come, all of 
you, and see this minion of the good God with colors 
on his stomach !” 


44 The Chouans. 


Hulot and several soldiers came round the body, now 
entirely naked, and saw upon its breast a blue tattooing 
in the form of a swollen heart. It was the sign of 
initiation into the brotherhood of the Sacred Heart. 
Above this sign were the words, “ Marie Lambrequin,” 
no doubt the man’s name. 

‘*Look at that, Clef-des-Cours,” said Beau-Pied ; 
‘*it would take you a hundred years to find out what 
that accoutrement is good for.” 

‘* What should I know about the Pope’s uniform?” 
replied Clef-des-Coeurs, scornfully. 

**'You worthless bog-trotter, you’ll never learn any- 
thing,” retorted Beau-Pied. ‘* Don’t you see that 
they ’ve promised that poor fool that he shall live again, 
and he has painted his gizzard in order to find himself?” 

At this sally — which was not without some founda- 
tion —even Hulot joined in the general hilarity. At 
this moment Merle returned, and the burial of the dead 
being completed and the wounded placed more or less 
comfortably in two carts, the rest of the late escort 
formed in two lines round the improvised ambulances, 
and descended the slope of the mountain towards 
Maine, where the beautiful valley of La Pelerine, a 
rival to that of Couésnon lay before it. 

IIulot with his two officers followed the troop slowly, 
hoping to get safely to Ernée where the wounded could 
be cared for. The fight we have just described, which 
was almost forgotten in the midst of the greater events 
which were soon to occur, was called by the name of 
the mountain on which it took place. It obtained some 
notice at the West, where the inhabitants, observant of 
this second uprising, noticed on this occasion a great 
change in the manner in which the Chouans now made 


The Chouans. 45 


war. In earlier days they would never have attacked 
so large a detachment. According to Hulot the young 
royalist whom he had seen was undoubtedly the Gars, 
the new general sent to France by the princes, who, 
following the example of the other royalist chiefs, 
concealed his real name and title under one of those 
pseudonyms called ‘*noms de guerre.” This circum- 
stance made the commandant quite as uneasy after his 
melancholy victory as he had been before it while ex- 
pecting the attack. He turned several times to con- 
sider the table-land of La Pelerine which he was leaving 
behind him, across which he could still hear faintly at 
intervals the drums of the National Guard descending 
into the valley of Couésnon at the same time that the 
Blues were descending into that of La Pelerine. 

‘Can either of you,” he said to his two friends, 
‘‘ouess the motives of that attack of the Chouans? 
To them, fighting is a matter of business, and I can’t 
see what they expected to gain by this attack. They 
nave lost at least a hundred men, and we ”’ — he added, 
screwing up his right cheek and winking by way ofa 
smile, ** have lost only sixty. God’s thunder! I don’t 
understand that sort of speculation. The scoundrels 
needn't have attacked us; we might just as well have 
been allowed to pass like letters through the post — 
No, I can’t see what good it has done them to bullet- 
hole our men,’ he added, with a sad shake of his head 
toward the carts. ‘Perhaps they only intended to 
say good-day to us.” 

‘¢ But they carried off our recruits, commander,” said 
Merle. 

‘¢The recruits could have skipped like frogs into the 
woods at any time, and we should never have gone after 


46 The Chouans. 


them, especially if those fellows had fired a single vol- 
ley,” returned Hulot. ‘+ No, no, there’s something 
behind all this.” Again he turned and looked at La 
Peélerine. ‘* See!” he cried; ‘* see there! ” 

Though they were now at a long distance from the 
fatal plateau, they could easily distinguish Marche-a- 
Terre and several Chouans who were again occupying it. 

** Double-quick, march!” cried Hulot to his men, 
‘open your compasses and trot the steeds faster than 
that! Are your legs frozen?” 

These words drove the little troop into rapid motion. 

‘* There’s a mystery, and it’s hard to make out,” 
continued Hulot, speaking to his friends. ‘** God grant 
it isn’t explained by muskets at Ernée. I’m very 
much afraid we shall find the road to Mayenne cut off 
by the king’s men.” 


The strategical problem which troubled the com- 
mandant was causing quite as much uneasiness to the 
persons whom he had just seen on the summit of Mont 
Pelerine. As soon as the drums of the National Guard 
were out of hearing and Marche-a-Terre had seen the 
Blues at the foot of the declivity, he gave the owl’s cry 
joyously, and the Chouans reappeared, but their num- 
bers were less. Some were no doubt busy in taking 
care of the wounded in the little village of La Peélerine, 
situated on the side of the nountain which looks toward 
the valley of Couésnon. Two or three chiefs of what 
were called the ‘* Chasscurs du Roi” clustered about 
Marche-i-Terre. <A few feet apart sat the young noble 
called The Gars, on a granite rock, absorbed in thoughts 
excited by the diflicullies of his enterprise, which now 
began to show themsclves. Marche-a-Terre screened 


The Chouans. 47 


his forehead with his hand from the rays of the sun, and 
looked gloomily at the road by which the Blues were 
crossing the valley of La Pelerine. His small black 
eyes could see what was happening on the hill-slopes 
on the other side of the valley. 

‘¢The Blues will intercept the messenger,” said the 
angry voice of one of the leaders who stood near him. 

‘¢By Saint Anne of Auray!” exclaimed another. 
‘© Why did you make us fight? Was it to save your 
own skin from the Blues?” 

Marche-a-Terre darted a venomous look at his ques- 
tioner and struck the ground with his heavy carbine. 

‘¢ Am I your leader?” he asked. Then after a pause 
he added, pointing to the remains of HHulot’s detach- 
ment, ‘* If you had all fought as I did not one of those 
Blues would have escaped, and the coach could have got 
here safely.” 

‘* They ‘d never have thought of escorting it or hold- 
ing it back if we had let them go by without a fight. 
No, you wanted to save your precious skin and get out 
of their hands— He has bled us for the sake of his 
own snout,” continued the orator, “and made us lose 
twenty thousand franes in good coin.” 

“Snout yourself!” cried Marche-a-Terre, retreating 
three steps and aiming at his aggressor. ‘‘It isn’t 
that you hate the Blues, but you love the gold. Die 
without confession and be damned, for you haven't 
taken the sacrament for a year.” 

This insult so incensed the Chouan that he turned 
pale and a low growl came from his chest as he aimed 
in turn at Marche-a-Terre. The young chief sprang 
between them and struck their weapons from their 
hands with the barrel of his own carbine; then he 


PAniia (oe 


48 The Chouans, 


demanded an explanation of the dispute, for the con- 


versation had been carried on in the Breton dialect, an 
idiom with which he was not familiar. 

‘¢ Monsieur le marquis,” said Marche-a-Terre, as he 
ended his account of the quarrel, ‘*it is all the more 
unreasonable in them to find fault with me because I 
have left Pille-Miche behind me; he’ll know how to 
save the coach for us.” 

What!” exclaimed the young man, angrily, ‘* are 
you waiting here, all of you, to pillage that coach? — 
a parcel of cowards who could n’t win a victory in the 
first fight to which I led you! But why should you 
win if that’s your object? The defenders of God and 
the king are thieves, are they? By Saint Anne of 
Auray! I’d have you know, we are making war 
against the Republic, and not robbing travellers. ‘Those 
who are guilty in future of such shameful actions shall 
not receive absolution, nor any of the favors reserved 
for the faithful servants of the king.” 

A murmur came from the group of Chouans, and it 
was easy to see that the authority of the new chief was 
about to be disputed. The young man, on whom this 
effect of his words was by no means lost, was thinking 
of the best means of maintaining the dignity of the 
command, when the trot of a horse was heard in the 
vicinity. AT] heads turned in the direction from which 
the sound came. <A lady appeared, sitting astride of a 
little Breton horse, which she put at a gallop as soon as 
she saw the young leader, so as to reach the group of 
Chouans as quickly as possible. 

“What is the matter?” she asked, looking first at 
the Chouans and then at their chief. 

** Could you believe it, madame? they are waiting to 


Vile 


The Chouans. 49 


rob the diligence from Mayenne to Fougeres when we 
have just had a skirmish, in order to release the con- 
scripts of Fougtres, which has cost us a great many 
men without defeating the Blues.” 

“ Well, where’s the harm of that?” asked the young 
lady, to whom the natural shrewdness of a woman ex- 
plained the whole scene. “You have lost men, but 
there’s no lack of others; the coach is bringing gold, 
and there’s always a lack of that. We bury men, who 
go to heaven, and we take money, which goes into the 
pockets of heroes. I don’t see the difficulty.” 

The Chouans approved of her speech by unanimous 
smiles. 

“Do you see nothing in all that to make you blush?” 
said the young man, in a low voice. “ Are you in such 
need of money that you must pillage on the high-road?” 

‘¢T am so eager for it, marquis, that I should put my 
heart in pawn if it were not already captured,” she said, 
smiling coquettishly. ‘* But where did you get the 
strange idea that you could manage Chouans_ with- 
out letting them rob a few Blues here and there? 
Don’t you know the saying, ‘ Thieving as an owl’ ?— 
and that’s a Chouan. Besides,” she said, raising her 
voice to be heard by the men, ‘‘it is just; haven’t the 
Blues seized the property of the Church, and our own?” 

Another murmur, very different from the growl with 
which the Chouans had answered their leader, greeted 
these words. ‘The young man’s face grew darker; he 
took the young lady aside and said in the annoyed tone 
of a well-bred man, ‘* Will those gentlemen be at La 
Vivetiere on the appointed day?” 

‘¢ Yes,” she replied, ‘‘all of them, the Claimant, 
Grand-Jacques, and perhaps Ferdinand.” 

4 


50 The Chouans. 


‘¢ Then allow me to return there. I cannot sanction 
such robbery. Yes, madame, I call it robbery. There 
may be honor in being robbed, but — ” 

‘Well, well,’ she said, interrupting him, “then I 
shall have your share of the booty, and I am much 
obliged to you for giving it up to me; the extra sum will 
be extremely useful, for my mother has delayed send. 
ing me money, so that I am almost destitute.” 

“ Adieu!” cried the marquis. 

He turned away, but the lady ran after him. 

‘¢ Why won't youstay with me?” she said, giving him 
the look, half-despotic, half-caressing. with which women 
who have a right to a man’s respect let him know their 
wishes. 

‘¢ You are going to pillage that coach 

‘¢ Pillage? what a word!” she said. “Let me ex- 
plain to you —” 

‘* Explain nothing,” he said taking her hand and 
kissing it with the superficial gallantry of a courtier. 
** Listen to me.” he added after a short pause: ‘if I 
were to stay here while they capture that diligence our 
people would kill me. for I should certainly — ” 

** Not kill them.” she said quickly, ‘‘ for they would 
bind your hands, with all the respect that is due to your 
rank; then, having levied the necessary contribution — 
for their equipment, subsistence, and munitions from 
our enemies, they would unbind you and obey you 
blindly.” 

‘And you wish me to command such men under 
such circumstances?’ If my life is necessary to the 
cause which I defend allow me at any rate to save the 
honor of my position. If I withdraw now I can ignore 
this base act. Twill return, in order to escort you.” 


59 
: 





The Chouans. ot 


So saying, he rapidly disappeared. The young lady 
listened to his receding steps with evident displeasure. 
When the sound on the dried leaves ceased, she stood 
for a moment as if confounded, then she hastily re- 
turned to the Chouans. With a gesture of contempt 
she said to Marche-a-Terre, who helped her to dis- 
mount, ‘*That young man wants to make regular 
war on the Republic! Ah, well! he’ll get over that 
in a few days. How he treated me!” she thought, 
presently. 

She seated herself on the rock where the marquis 
had been sitting, and silently awaited the arrival of the 
coach. It was one of the phenomena of the times, and 
not the least of them, that this young and noble lady 
should be flung by violent partisanship into the struggle 
of monarchies against the spirit of the age, and be 
driven by the strength of her feelings into actions of 
which it may almost be said she was not conscious. 
In this she resembled others of her time who were 
led away by an enthusiasm which was often produc- 
tive of noble deeds. Like her, many women played 
heroic or blameworthy parts in the fierce struggle. 
The royalist cause had no emissaries so devoted and 
so active as these women; but none of the heroines on 
that side paid for mistaken devotion or for actions for- 
bidden to their sex, with a greater expiation than did this 
lady when, seated on that wayside rock, she was forced 
to admire the young leader’s noble disdain and loyalty 
to principle. Insensibly she dropped into revery. Bit- 
ter memories made her long for the innocence of her 
early years, and regret that she had escaped being a 
victim of the Revolution whose victorious march could 
no longer be arrested by feeble hands. 


sy The Chouans. 


The coach, which, as we now see, had much to do 
with the attack of the Chouans, had started from the 
little town of Ernée a few moments before the skirmish- 
ing began. Nothing pictures a region so well as the 
state of its social material. From this point of view 
the coach deserves a mention. The Revolution itself 
was powerless to destroy it; in fact, it still rolls to the 
present day. When Turgot bought up the privileges 
of a company, obtained under Louis XIV., for the ex- 
clusive right of transporting travellers from one part of 
the kingdom to another, and instituted the lines of 
coaches called the ‘* turgotines,” all the old vehicles 
of the former company flocked into the provinces. One 
of these shabby coaches was now plying between Ma- 
yenne and Fougéres. <A few objectors called it the 
‘*turgotine,” partly to mimic Paris and partly to de- 
ride a minister who attempted innovations. This tur- 
gotine was a wretched cabriolet on two high wheels, in 
the depths of which two persons, if rather fat, could with 
difficulty have stowed themselves. The narrow quarters 
of this rickety machine not admitting of any crowding, 
and the box which formed the seat being kept exclu- 
sively for the postal service, the travellers who had any 
baggage were forced to keep it between their legs, al- 
ready tortured by being squeezed into a sort of little 
box in shape like a bellows. The original color of 
coach and running-gear was an insoluble enigma. ‘Two 
leather curtains, very difficult to adjust in spite of their 
long service, were supposed to protect the occupants 
from cold and rain. The driver, perched on a plank seat 
like those of the worst Varisian ‘* coucous,” shared 
in the conversation by reason of his position between 
his victims, biped and quadruped. ‘The equipage pre- 


o 


(wa) 


The Chouans. 


sented yarious fantastic resemblances to decrepit old 
men who haye gone through a goodly number of ca- 
tarrhs and apoplexies and whom death respects; it 
moaned as it rolled, and squeaked spasmodically. Like 
a traveller overtaken by sleep, it rocked alternately for- 
ward and back, as though it tried to resist the violent 
action of two little Breton horses which dragged it 
along a road which was more than rough. This monu- 
ment of a past era contained three travellers, who, on 
leaving Ernée, where they had changed horses, con- 
tinued a conversation begun with the driver before 
reaching the little town. 

“What makes you think the Chouans are here- 
abouts?” said the coachman. “The Ernée people 
tell me that Commandant Hulot has not yet started 
from Fougeres.” 

“Ho, ho, friend driver!” said the youngest of the 
travellers, “you risk nothing but your own carcass! 
If you had a thousand francs about you, as I have, and 
were known to be a good patriot, you would n’t take it 
sO easy.” 

“You are pretty free with your tongue, any way,” 
said the driver, shaking his head. 

“Count your lambs, and the wolf will eat them,” 
remarked another of the travellers. 

This man, who was dressed in black, seemed to be 
about forty years old, and was, probably, the rector of 
some parish in the neighborhood. His chin rested on 
a double fold of flesh, and his florid complexion indi- 
cated a priest. Though short and fat, he displayed 
some agility when required to get in or out of the 
vehicle. 

“Perhaps you are both Chouans!” cried the man of 


54 The Chouans. 


the thousand francs, whose ample goatskin, covering 
trousers of good cloth and a clean waistcoat, bespoke a 
rich farmer. “By the soul of Saint Robespierre! I 
swear you shall be roughly handled.” 

He turned his gray eyes from the driver to his fellow- 
travellers and showed them a pistol in his belt. 

“ Bretons are not afraid of that,’ said the rector, 
disdainfully. ‘* Besides, do we look like men who 
want your money?” 

Every time the word “money” was mentioned the 
driver was silent, and the rector had wit enough to 
doubt whether the patriot had any at all, and to suspect 
that the driver was carrying a good deal. 

“ Are you well laden, Coupiau?” he asked. 

“Oh, no, Monsieur Gudin,” replied the coachman. 
** T’m carrying next to nothing.” 

The priest watched the faces of the patriot and 
Coupiau as the latter made this answer, and both 
were imperturbable. 

“So much the better for you.” remarked the patriot. 
“T can now take measures to save my property in case 
of danger.” 

Such despotic assumption nettled Coupiau, who an- 
swered gruffly: “I am the master of my own carriage, 
and so long as I drive you—” 

“ Are you a patriot, or are you a Chouan?” said the 
other, sharply interrupting him. 

“Neither the one nor the other,” replied Coupiau. 
“T’m a _ postilion, and, what is more, a Breton, — 
consequently, I fear neither Blues nor nobles.” 

“Noble thieves!” cried the patriot, ironically. 

“They only take back what was stolen from them,” 
said the rector, vehemently. 


The Chouans. 55 


The two men looked at each other in the whites of 
their eyes, if we may use a phrase so colloquial. 
Sitting back in the vehicle was a third traveller who 
took no part in the discussion, and preserved a deep 
silence. The driver and the patriot and even Gudin 
paid no attention to this mute individual; he was, in 
truth, one of those uncomfortable, unsocial travellers 
who are found sometimes in a stage-coach, like a patient 
calf that is being carried, bound, to the nearest market. 
Such travellers begin by filling their full legal space, 
and end by sleeping, without the smallest respect for 
their fellow-beings, on a neighbor’s shoulder. The 
patriot, Gudin, and the driver had let him alone, 
thinking him asleep, after discovering that it was use- 
less to talk to a man whose stolid face betrayed an 
existence spent in measuring yards of linen, and an 
intellect employed in selling them at a good percentage 
above cost. This fat little man, doubled-up in his 
corner, opened his porcelain-blue eyes every now and 
then, and looked at each speaker with a sort of terror. 
He appeared to be afraid of his fellow-travellers and 
to care very little about the Chouans. When he looked 
at the driver, however, they seemed to be a pair of free- 
masons. Just then the first volley of musketry was 
heard on La Pelerine. Coupiau, frightened, stopped 
the coach. 

“Oh! oh!” said the priest, as if he had some means 
of judging, “it is a serious engagement; there are 
many men.” 

“The trouble for us, Monsieur Gudin.” eried Cou- 
piau, “is to know which side will win.” 

The faces of all became unanimously anxious. 

“‘Let us put up the coach at that inn which I see 


56 The Chouans. 


over there,” said the patriot; “we can hide it till we 
know the result of the fight.” 

The advice seemed so good that Coupiau followed it. 
The patriot helped him to conceal the coach behind a 
wood-pile ; the abbe seized the occasion to pull Coupiau 
aside and say to him, in a low voice: “Has he really 
any money?” ; 

“Hey, Monsieur Gudin, if it gets into the pockets of 
your Reverence, they wont be weighed down with it.” 

When the Blues marched by, after the encounter on 
La Peélerine, they were in such haste to reach Ernée 
that they passed the little inn without halting. At the 
sound of their hasty march, Gudin and the innkeeper, 
stirred by curiosity, went to the gate of the courtyard 
to watch them. Suddenly, the fat ecclesiastic rushed to 
a soldier who was lagging in the rear. 

‘¢Gudin!” he cried, ‘* you wrong-headed fellow, 
have you joined the Blues? My lad, you are surely 
not in earnest?” 

“Yes, uncle.” answered the corporal. ‘* I’ve sworn 
to defend France.” 

‘Unhappy boy! you'll lose your soul,” said the 
uncle, trying to rouse his nephew to the religious 
sentiments which are so powerful in the Breton breast. 

‘¢Uncle,” said the young man, “if the king had 
placed himself at the head of his armies, I don’t say 
but what—” 

‘¢Fool! who is talking to you about the king? 
Does your republic give abbeys? No, it has upset 
everything. How do you expect to get on in life? 
Stay with us; sooner or later we shall triumph and 
you'll be counsellor to some parliament.” 

“Parliaments!” said young Gudin, in a mocking 
tone. ‘*Good-by, uncle.” 


The Chouans. Ot 


“You sha’n’t have a penny at my death,” cried his 
uncle, in a rage. ‘*I’ll disinherit you.” 

‘Thank you, uncle,” said the Republican, as they 
parted. 

The fumes of the cider which the patriot copiously 
bestowed on Coupiau during the passage of the little 
troop had somewhat dimmed the driver’s perceptions, 
but he roused himself joyously when the innkeeper, 
having questioned the soldiers, came back to the inn 
and announced that the Blues were victorious. He 
at once brought out the coach and before long it was 
wending its way across the valley. 

When the Blues reached an acclivity on the road 
from which the plateau of La Pelerine could again be 
seen in the distance, Hulot turned round to discover 
if the Chouans were still occupying it, and the sun, 
glinting on the muzzles of the guns, showed them to him, 
each like a dazzling spot. Giving a last glance to the 
valley of La Pélerine before turning into that of Ernée, 
he thought he saw Coupiau’s vehicle on the road he 
had just traversed. 

“Ts n’t that the Mayenne coach?” he said to his two 
officers. 

They looked at the venerable turgotine, and easily 
recognized it. 

“But,” said Hulot, “how did we fail to meet it?” 

Merle and Gérard looked at each other in silence. 

“Another enigma!” cried the commandant. “ But 
I begin to see the meaning of it all.” 

At the same moment Marche-a-Terre, who also knew 
the turgotine, called his comrades’ attention to it, and 
the general shout of joy which they sent up roused the 
young lady from her reflections. She advanced a little 


58 The Chouans. 


distance and saw the coach, which was beginning the 
ascent of La Pelerine with fatal rapidity. The luckless 
vehicle soon reached the plateau. The Chouans, who 
had meantime hidden themselves, swooped on their 
prey with hungry celerity. The silent traveller slipped 
to the floor of the carriage, bundling himself up into 
the semblance of a bale. 

“ Well done!” cried Coupiau from his wooden perch, 
pointing to the man in the goatskin; “you must 
have scented this patriot who has lots of gold in his 
pouch —” 

The Chouans greeted these words with roars of 
laughter, crying out: “Pille-Miche! hey, Pille-Miche! 
Pille-Miche!” 

Amid the laughter, to which Pille-Miche responded 
like an echo, Coupiau came down from his seat quite 
crestfallen. When the famous Cibot, otherwise called 
Pille-Miche, helped his neighbor to get out of the 
coach, a respectful murmur was heard among the 
Chouans. 

“Tt is the Abbé Gudin!”’ cried several voices. At 
this respected name every hat was off, and the men 
knelt down before the priest as they asked his 
blessing, which he gaye solemnly. 

“ Pille-Miche here could trick Saint Peter and steal 
the keys of Paradise,” said the rector, slapping that 
worthy on the shoulder. “If it hadn’t been for him, 
the Blues would have intercepted us.” 

Then, noticing the lady, the abbé went to speak to 
her apart. Marche-a-Terre, who had meantime briskly 
opened the boot of the cabriolet, held up to his com- 
panions, with savage joy, a bag, the shape of which 
betrayed its contents to be rolls of coin. It did not 


The Chouans. 59 


take long to divide the booty. Each Chouan received 
his share, so carefully apportioned that the division was 
made without the slightest dispute. Then Marche-a- 
Terre went to the lady and the priest, and offered them 
each about six thousand francs. 

“Can I conscientiously accept this money, Monsieur 
Gudin?” said the lady, feeling a need of justification. 

“Why not, madame? In former days the Church 
approved of the confiscation of the property of Prot- 
estants, and there’s far more reason for confiscating 
that of these revolutionists, who deny God, destroy 
chapels, and persecute religion.” 

The abbé then joined example to precept by accept- 
ing, without the slightest scruple, the novel sort of 
tithe which Marche-a-Terre offered to him. ‘‘ Besides,” 
he added, “I can now devote all I possess to the 
service of God and the king; for my nephew has 
joined the Blues, and I disinherit him.” 

Coupiau was bemoaning himself and declaring that 
he was ruined. 

‘* Join us,” said Marche-a-Terre, ‘‘and you shall 
have your share.” 

‘¢'They ll say I let the coach be robbed on purpose 
if I return without signs of violence.” 

‘¢ Oh, is that all? ” exclaimed Marche-a-Terre. 

He gave a signal and a shower of bullets riddled the 
turgotine. At this unexpected volley the old vehicle 
gave forth such a lamentable cry that the Chouans, 
superstitious by nature, recoiled in terror; but Marche- 
a-Terre caught sight of the pallid face of the silent 
traveller rising from the floor of the coach. 

‘*You’ve got another fowl in your coop,” he said in 
a low voice to Coupiau. 


60 The Chouans. 


‘¢ Yes,” said the driver; ‘* but I make it a condition 
of my joining you that I be allowed to take that worthy 
man safe and sound to Fougeres. I’m pledged to it in 
the name of Saint Anne of Auray.” 

‘¢ Who is he?” asked Pille-Miche. 

‘* That I can’t tell you,” replied Coupiau. 

“Let him alone!” said Marche-a-Terre, shoving 
Pille-Miche with his elbow; ‘‘ he has vowed by Saint 
Anne of Auray, and he must keep his word.” 

‘* Very good,” said Pille-Miche, addressing Coupiau ; 
“but mind you don’t go down the mountain too fast; 
we shall overtake you,—a good reason why; I want 
to see the cut of your traveller, and give him his 
passport.” 

Just then the gallop of a horse coming rapidly up the 
slopes of La Pelerine was heard, and the young chief 
presently reappeared. The lady hastened to conceal 
the bag of plunder which she held in her hand. 

*¢'You can keep that money without any scruple,” 
said the young man, touching the arm which the lady 
had put behind her. ‘* Here isa letter for you which 
I have just found among mine which were waiting for 
me at La Vivetiere; it is from your mother.” ‘Then, 
looking at the Chouans who were disappearing into the 
woods, and at the turgotine which was now on its way 
to the valley of Couésnon, he added: ‘* After all my 
haste I see I am too late. God grant I am deceived in 
my suspicions ! ” 

‘¢It was my poor mother’s money!” cried the lady, 
after opening her letter, the first lines of which drew 
forth her exclamation. 

A smothered laugh came from the woods, and the 
young man himself could not help smiling as he saw 


The Chouans. 61 


the lady holding in her hand the bag containing her 
share in the pillage of her own money. She herself 
began to laugh. 

‘+ Well, well, marquis, God be praised! this time, at 
least, you can’t blame me,” she said, smiling. 

‘¢ Levity in everything! even your remorse 
the young man. 

She colored and looked at the marquis with so 
genuine a contrition that he was softened. The abbé 
politely returned to her, with an equivocal manner, the 
sum he had received; then he followed the young 
leader who took the by-way through which he had 
come. Before following them the lady made a sign to 
Marche-a-Terre, who came to her. 

‘* Advance towards Mortagne,” she said to him ina 
low voice. ‘*I know that the Blues are constantly 
sending large sums of money in coin to Alencon to pay 
for their supplies of war. If I allow you and your 
comrades to keep what you captured to-day it is only 
on condition that you repay it later. But be careful 
that the Gars knows nothing of the object of the 
expedition; he would certainly oppose it; in case of 
ill-luck, I will pacify him.” 

‘¢ Madame,” said the marquis, after she had rejoined 
him and had mounted his horse en croupe, giving her 
own to the abbé, ‘* my friends in Paris write me to be 
very careful of what we do; the Republic, they say, is 
preparing to fight us with spies and treachery.” 

**Tt wouldn't be a bad plan,” she replied; “ they 
have clever ideas, those fellows. I could take part in 
that sort of war and find foes.” 

**T don’t doubt it!” cried the marquis. “ Pichegru 
advises me to be cautious and watchful in my friend- 


1 


said 


62 The Chouans. 


ships and relations of every kind. The Republic does 
me the honor to think me more dangerous than all the 
Vendeans put together, and counts on certain of my 
weaknesses to lay hands upon me.” 

“Surely you will not distrust me?” she said, striking 
his heart with the hand by which she held to him. 

‘¢ Are you a traitor, madame?” he said, bending 
towards her his forehead, which she kissed. 

‘¢ Tn that case,” said the abbé, referring to the news, 
‘¢Fouché’s police will be more dangerous for us than 
their battalions of recruits and counter-Chouans.” 

‘* Yes, true enough, father,” replied the marquis. 

** Ah! ah!” cried the lady. “ Fouché means to send 
women against you, does he? I shall be ready for 
them,” she added in a deeper tone of voice and after 
a slight pause. 


At a distance of three or four gunshots from the 
plateau, now abandoned, a little scene was taking 
place which was not uncommon in those days on the 
high-roads. After leaving the little village of La Pe- 
lerine, Pille-Miche and Marche-a-Terre again stopped 
the turgotine at adip in the road. Coupiau got off his 
seat after making a faint resistance. The silent trav- 
eller, extracted from his hiding-place by the two Chou- 
ans, found himself on his knees in a furze bush. 

‘¢Who are you?” asked Marche-a-Terre in a threat- 
ening voice. 

The traveller kept silence till Pille-Miche put the 
question again and enforced it with the butt end of his 
gun, 

‘¢T am Jacques Pinaud,” he replied, with a glance at 
Coupiau ; “a poor linen-draper.” 


The Chouans. 63 


Coupiau made a sign in the negative, not consider- 
ing if an infraction of his promise to Saint Anne. The 
sign enlightened Pille-Miche, who took aim at the luck- 
less traveller, while Marche-’-Terre laid before him 
categorically a terrible ultimatum. 

** You are too fat to be poor. If you make me ask 
you your name again, here’s my friend Pille-Miche, 
who will obtain the gratitude and good-will of your 
heirs in a second. Who are you?” he added, after a 
pause. 

‘*T am d’Orgemont, of Fougéres.” 

“Ah! ah!” cried the two Chouans. 

‘*T didn’t tell your name, Monsieur d'Orgemont,” 
said Coupiau. ‘* The Holy Virgin is my witness that 
I did my best to protect you.” 

‘‘Inasmuch as you are Monsieur d’Orgemont, of 
Fougéres,” said Marche-a-Terre, with an air of ironical 
respect, ‘‘ we shall let you goin peace. Only, as you 
are neither a good Chouan nor a true Blue (though it 
was you who bought the property of the Abbey de 
Juvigny), you will pay us three hundred crowns of six 
francs each for your ransom. Neutrality is worth that, 
at least.” 

‘¢Three hundred crowns of six francs each!” cho- 
russed the luckless banker, Pille-Miche, and Coupiau, 
in three different tones. 

“Alas, my good friend,” continued d’Orgemont, “I’m 
a ruined man. The last forced loan of that devilish 
tepublic for a hundred millions sucked me dry, taxed 
as I was already.” 

‘* How much did your Republic get out of you?” 

‘¢A thousand crowns, my dear man,” replied the 
banker, with a piteous air, hoping for a reduction. 


64 The Chouans. 


“*Tf your Republic gets forced loans out of you for 
such big sums as that you must see that you would do 
better with us; our government would cost you less. 
Three hundred crowns, do you call that dear for your 
skin?” ; 

‘* Where am I to get them?” 

‘¢*Out of your strong-box,” said Pille-Miche; “and 
mind that the money is forthcoming, or we ’ll singe you 
still.” 

‘+ How am I to pay it to you?” asked d’Orgemont. 

‘Your country-house at Fougéres is not far from 
Gibarry’s farm where my cousin Galope-Chopine, other- 
wise called Cibot, lives. You can pay the money to 
him,” said Pille-Miche. 

‘¢' That ’s not business-like,” said d’Orgemont. 

** What do we care for that?” said Marche-a Terre. 
“ But mind you remember that if that money is not 
paid to Galope-Chopine within two weeks we shall pay 
you a little visit which will cure your gout. As for 
you, Coupiau,” added Marche-a-Terre, ‘* your name in 
future is to be Méne-a-Bien.” 

So saying, the two Chouans departed. The traveller 
returned to the vehicle, which, thanks to Coupiau’s 
whip, now made rapid progress to Fougeres. 

‘Tf you’d only been armed,” said Coupiau, ‘* we 
might have made some defence.” 

‘“*Tdiot!” cried dOrgemont, pointing to his heavy 
shoes. ‘*I have ten thousand franes in those soles ; 
do you think I would be such a fool as to fight with 
that sum about me?” 

Méne-a-Bien seratched his ear and looked behind him, 
but his new comrades were out of sight. 

Hulot and his command stopped at) Ernée long 


The Chouans. 65 


enough to place the wounded in the hospital of the 
little town, and then, without further hindrance, they 
reached Mayenne. There the commandant cleared up 
his doubts as to the action of the Chouans, for on the 
following day the news of the pillage of the turgotine 
was received. c 

A few days later the government despatched to Ma- 
yenne so strong a force of ‘* patriot conscripts,” that 
Hulot was able to fill the ranks of his brigade. Dis- 
quieting rumors began to circulate about the insurrec- 
tion. A rising had taken place at all the points where, 
during the late war, the Chouans and Bretons had 
made their chief centres of insurrection. The little 
town of Saint-James, between Pontorson and Fougeéres 
was occupied by them, apparently for the purpose of 
making it for the time being a headquarters of opera- 
tions and supplies. From there they were able to com- 
municate with Normandy and the Morbihan without 
risk. Their subaltern leaders roamed the three prov- 
inces, roused all the partisans of monarchy, and gave 
consistence and unity to their plans. These proceed- 
ings coincided with what was going on in La Vendée, 
where the same intrigues, under the influence of four 
famous leaders (the Abb? Vernal, the Comte de Fon- 
taine, De Chatillon, and Suzannet), were agitating the 
country. The Chevalier de Valois, the Marquis (’Es- 
grignon, and the Troisvilles were, it was said, corre- 
sponding with these leaders in the department of the 
Orne. The chief of the great plan of operations which 
was thus developing slowly but in formidable propor- 
tions was really “the Gars,” —a name given by the 
Chouans to the Marquis de Montauran on his arrival 
from England. The information sent to Hulot by the 


2D 


66 The Chouans. 


War department proved correct in all particulars. The 
marquis gained alter a time sufficient ascendency over 
the Chouans to make them understand the true object of 
the war, and to persuade them that the excesses of which 
they were guilty brought disgrace upon the cause they 
had adopted. The daring nature, the nerve, coolness, 
and capacity of this young nobleman awakened the 
hopes of all the enemies of the Republic, and suited so 
thoroughly the grave and even solemn enthusiasm of 
those regions that even the least zealous partisans of 
the king did their part in preparing a decisive blow in 
behalf of the defeated monarchy. 

Hulot received no answer to the questions and the 
frequent reports which he addressed to the government 
in Paris. 

But the news of the almost magical return of General 
Bonaparte and the events of the 18th Brumaire were 
soon current in the air, The military commanders of 
the West understood then the silence of the ministers. 
Nevertheless, they were only the more impatient to 
be released from the responsibility that weighed upon 
them ; and they were in every way desirous of knowing 
what measures the new government was likely to take. 
When it was known to these soldiers that General 
Bonaparte was appointed First Consul of the Republic 
their joy was great; they saw, for the first time, one 
of their own profession called to the management of 
the nation. France, which had made an idol of this 
young hero, quivered with hope. The vigor and energy 
of the nation revived. Paris, weary of its long gloom, 
gave itself up to fétes and pleasures of which it had 
been so long deprived. The first acts of the Consulate 
did not diminish any hopes, and Liberty felt no alarm, 


The Chouans. 67 


The First Consul issued a proclamation to the inhabi- 
tants of the West. The eloquent allocutions addressed 
to the masses which Bonaparte had, as it were, in- 
vented, produced effects in those days of patriotism 
and miracle that were absolutely startling. His voice 
echoed through the world like the voice of a prophet, 
for none of his proclamations had, as yet, been belied 
by defeat. 


INUABITANTS: 


An impious war again inflames the West. 

The makers of these troubles are traitors sold to the 
English, or brigands who seek in civil war opportunity 
and license for misdeeds. 

To such men the government owes no forbearance, 
nor any declaration of its principles. 

But there are citizens, dear to France, who have been 
misled by their wiles. It is to such that truth and light 
are due. 

Unjust laws have been promulgated and executed ; 
arbitrary acts have threatened the safety of citizens 
and the liberty of consciences ; mistaken entries on the 
list of émigrés imperil citizens; the great principles of 
social order have been violated. 

The Consuls declare that liberty of worship having 
been guaranteed by the Constitution, the law of 11 
Prairial, year III., which gives the use of edifices 
built for religious worship to all citizens, shall be 
executed. 

The government will pardon; it will be merciful to 
repentance ; its mercy will be complete and absolute ; 
but it will punish whosoever, after this declaration, 
shall dare to resist the national sovereignty. 


68 The Chouans. 


“Well,” said Hulot, after the public reading of this 
Consular manifesto, ‘‘Isn’t that paternal enough? 
But you'll see that not a single royalist brigand will 
be changed by it.” 

The commandant was right. The proclamation 
merely served to strengthen each side in their own 
convictions. A few days later Hulot and his col- 
leagues received reinforcements. The new minister of 
war notified them that General Brune was appointed 
to command the troops in the west of France. Hulot, 
whose experience was known to the government, had 
provisional control in the departments of the Orne and 
Mayenne. An unusual activity began to show itself 
in the government offices. Circulars from the minister 
of war and the minister of police gave notice that 
vigorous measures entrusted to the military command- 
ers would be taken to stifle the insurrection at its birth. 
But the Chouans and the Vendéans had profited by 
the inaction of the Directory to rouse the whole region 
and virtually take possession of it. A new Consular 
proclamation was therefore issued. This time, it was 
the general speaking to his troops :— 


SOLDIERS : 

There are none but brigands, émigrés, and hirelings 
of England now remaining in the West. 

The army is composed of more than fifty thousand 
brave men. Let me speedily hear from them that the 
rebel chiefs have ceased to live. Glory is won by toil 
alone; if it could be had by living in barracks in a 
town, all would have it. 

Soldiers, whatever be the rank you hold in the army, 
the gratitude of the nation awaits you. To be worthy 


The Chouans. 69 


of it, you must brave the inclemencies of weather, 
ice, snow, and the excessive coldness of the nights ; 
you must surprise your enemies at daybreak, and 
exterminate those wretches, the disgrace of France. 

Make a short and sure campaign; be inexorable to 
those brigands, and maintain strict discipline. 

National Guards, join the strength of your arms to 
that of the line. 

If you know among you any men who fraternize with 
the brigands, arrest them. Let them find no refuge; 
pursue them; if traitors dare to harbor and defend 
them, let them perish together. 


“What a man!” cried Hulot. ‘‘It is just as it was 
in the army of Italy —he rings in the mass, and he 
says it himself. Don’t you call that talking, hey?” 

“Yes, but he speaks by himself and in his own 
name,” said Gérard, who began to feel alarmed at 
the possible results of the 18th Brumaire. 

* And where’s the harm, since he’s a soldier?” said 
Merle, 

A group of soldiers were clustered at a little distance 
before the same proclamation posted on a wall. As 
none of them could read, they gazed at it, some with 
a careless eye, others with curiosity, while two or three 
hunted about for a citizen who looked learned enough 
to read it to them. 

“Now you tell us, Clef-des-Ceeurs, what that rag of 
a paper says,” cried Beau-Pied, in a saucy tone to his 
comrade. 

“Easy to guess,” replied Clef-des-Ceeurs. 

At these words the other men clustered round the 
pair, who were always ready to play their parts. 


T0 The Chouans. 


“ Look there,” continued Clef-des-Cceurs, pointing to 
a coarse woodcut which headed the proclamation and 
represented a pair of compasses, — which had lately 
superseded the level of 1793. “It means that the 
troops — that’s us—are to march firm; don’t you 
see the compasses are open, both legs apart ? — that’s 
an emblem.” 

“So much for your learning, my lad; it isn’t an 
emblem —it’s called a problem. I’ve served in the 
artillery,” continued Beau-Pied, “and problems were 
meat and drink to my officers.” 

“T say it’s an emblem.” 

“It’s a problem” 

“ What will you bet?” 

“ Anything.” 

“ Your German pipe?” 

“Done!” 

“ By your leave, adjutant, is n’t that thing an emblem, 
and not a problem?” said Clef-des-Cceurs, following 
Gérard, who was thoughtfully walking away. 

“Tt is both,” he replied, gravely. 

“The adjutant was making fun of you,” said Beau- 
Pied. ‘*That paper means that our general in Italy is 
promoted Consul, which is a fine grade, and we are to 
get shoes and overcoats.” 


The Chouans. i 


Ly: 
ONE OF FOUCHE’S IDEAS. 


OnE morning towards the end of Brumaire just as 
Hulot was exercising his brigade, now by order of his 
superiors wholly concentrated at Mayenne, a courier 
arrived from Alencon with despatches, at the reading 
of which his face betrayed extreme annoyance. 

*¢ Forward, then!” he cried in an angry tone, stick- 
ing the papers into the crown of his hat. ‘* Two 
companies will march with me towards Mortagne. The 
Chouans are there. You will accompany me,” he said 
to Merle and Gérard. “May I be created a nobleman 
if I can understand one word of that despatch. Perhaps 
I’m a fool! well, anyhow, forward, march! there’s no 
time to lose.” 

“Commandant, by your leave,” said Merle, kicking 
the cover of the ministerial despatch with the toe of 
his boot, “ what is there so exasperating in that?” 

“God's thunder! nothing at all— except that we 
are fooled.” 

When the commandant gave vent to this military 
oath (an object it must be said of Republican atheistical 
remonstrance) it gave warning of a storm: the diverse 
intonations of the words were degrees of a thermometer 
by which the brigade could judge of the patience of its 
commander; the old soldier’s frankness of nature had 


2 The Chouans. 


made this knowledge so easy that the veriest little 
drummer-boy knew his Ifulot by heart, simply by ob- 
serving the variations of the grimace with which the 
commander screwed up his cheek and snapped his 
eyes and vented his oath. On this occasion the tone 
of smothered rage with which he uttered the words 
made his two friends silent and circumspect. Even the 
pits of the small-pox which dented that veteran face 
seemed deeper, and the skin itself browner than usual. 
His broad queue, braided at the edges, had fallen upon 
one of his epaulettes as he replaced his three-cornered 
hat, and he flung it back with such fury that the ends 
became untied. However, as he stood stock-still, his 
hands clenched, his arms crossed tightly over his breast, 
his mustache bristling, Gérard ventured to ask him pres- 
ently: “ Are we to start at once?” 

“ Yes, if the men have ammunition.” 

“They have.” 

‘Shoulder arms! Left wheel, forward, march!” 
cried Gérard, at a sign from the commandant. 

The drum-corps marched at the head of the two com- 
panies designated by Gérard. At the first roll of the 
drums the commandant, who still stood plunged in 
thought, seemed to rouse himself, and he left the town 
accompanied by his two officers, to whom he said not a 
word. Merle and Gérard looked at each other silently 
as if to ask, “ How long is he going to keep us in sus- 
pense?” and, as they marched, they cautiously kept an 
observing eye on their leader, who continued to vent 
rambling words between his teeth. Several times these 
vague phrases sounded like oaths in the ears of his sol- 
diers, but not one of them dared to utter a word; for 
they all, when occasion demanded, maintained the stern 


The Chouans. ia 


discipline to which the veterans who had served under 
Bonaparte in Italy were accustomed. ‘The greater part 
of them had belonged, like Ilulot, to the famous bat- 
talions which capitulated at Mayenne under a promise 
not to serve again on the frontier, and the army called 
them “Les Mayengais.” It would be difficult to find 
leaders and men who more thoroughly understood each 
other. 

At dawn of the day after their departure Hulot and 
his troop were on the high-road to Alencon, about three 
miles from that town towards Mortagne, at a part of 
the road which leads through pastures watered by the 
Sarthe. <A picturesque vista of these meadows lay to 
the left, while the woodlands on the right which flank 
the road and join the great forest of Menil-Broust, serve 
as a foil to the delightful aspect of the river-scenery. 
The narrow causeway is bordered on each side by 
ditches the soil of which, being constantly thrown out 
upon the fields, has formed high banks covered with 
furze,— the name given throughout the West to the 
prickly gorse. This shrub, which spreads itself in thorny 
masses, makes excellent fodder in winter for horses 
and cattle; but as long as it was not cut the Chouans 
hid themselves behind its breastwork of dull green. 
These banks bristling with gorse, signifying to travel- 
lers their approach to Brittany, made this part of the 
road at the period of which we write as dangerous as 
it was beautiful; it was these dangers which compelled 
the hasty departure of Hulot and his soldiers, and it 
was here that he at last let out the secret of his wrath. 

He was now on his return, escorting an old mail- 
coach drawn by post-horses, which the weariness of his 
soldiers, after their forced march, was compelling to ad- 


74 The Chouans. 


vance atasnail’s pace. The company of Blues from 
the garrison at Mortagne, who had escorted the rickety 
vehicle to the limits of their district, where Hulot and 
his men had met them, could be seen in the distance, 
on their way back to their quarters, like so many black 
specks. One of Hulot’s companies was in the rear, 
the other in advance of the carriage. The comman- 
dant, who was marching with Merle and Gérard be- 
tween the advance guard and the carriage, suddenly 
erowled out: “Ten thousand thunders! would you be- 
believe that the general detached us from Mayenne to 
escort two petticoats?” 

“ But, commandant,” remarked Gérard, “ when we 
came up just now and took charge I observed that you 
bowed to them not ungraciously.” 

“Wa! that’s the infamy of it. Those dandies in 
Paris ordered the greatest attention paid to their 
damned females. How dare they dishonor good and 
brave patriots by trailing us after petticoats? As for 
me, I march straight, and I don’t choose to have to do 
with other people’s zigzags. When I saw Danton tak- 
ing mistresses, and Barras too, I said to them: ‘ Citi- 
zens, when the Republic called you to govern, it was 
not that you might authorize the vices of the old 
régime.’ You may tell me that women —oh yes! we 
must have women, that’s all right. Good soldiers of 
course must have women, and good women; but in 
times of danger, no! Besides, where would be the 
good of sweeping away the old abuses if patriots bring 
them back again? Look at the First Consul, there ’s 
aman! no women for him; always about his business. 
I’d bet my left mustache that he doesn’t know the 
fool's errand we ’ve been sent on!” 


The Chouans. TO 


‘¢ But, commandant,” said Merle, laughing, ‘ I have 
seen the tip-end of the nose of the young lady, and 
I'll declare the whole world needn’t be ashamed to 
feel an itch, as I do, to revolve round that carriage and 
get up a bit of a conversation.” 

‘* Look out, Merle,” said Gérard; “ the veiled beau- 
ties have a man accompanying them who seems wily 
enough to catch you in a trap.” 

‘Who? that ixcroyable whose little eyes are ferret- 
ting from one side of the road to the other, as if he 
saw Chouans? The fellow seems to have no legs; the 
moment his horse is hidden by the carriage, he looks 
like a duck with its head sticking out of a paté. If 
that booby can hinder me from kissing the pretty 
linnet — ” 

“<Duck’! ‘linnet’ ! oh, my poor Merle, you have taken 
wings indeed! But don’t trust the duck. His green 
eyes are as treacherous as the eyes of a snake, and as 
sly as those of a woman who forgives her husband. I 
distrust the Chouans much less than I do those lawyers 
whose faces are like bottles of lemonade.” 

‘¢ Pooh!” cried Merle, gayly. “Ill risk it — with 
the commandant’s permission. That woman has eyes 
like stars, and it’s worth playing any stakes to see 
them.” 

‘*Caught, poor fellow!” said Gérard to the com- 
mandant; “he is beginning to talk nonsense!” 

IIulot made a face, shrugged his shoulders, and 
said: ‘* Before he swallows the soup, I advise him 
to smell it.” 

*¢ Bravo, Merle,” said Gérard, judging by his friend’s 
lagging step that he meant to let the carriage overtake 
him. ‘Isn't he a happy fellow? He is the only man 


76 The Chouans. 


I know who can laugh over the death of a comrade 
without being thought unfeeling.” 

‘*HWe’s the true French soldier,” said Hulot, in a 
grave tone. 

** Just look at him pulling his epaulets back to his 
shoulders, to show he is a captain,” cried Gérard, 
laughing, —‘‘as if his rank mattered!” 

The coach toward which the officer was pivoting did, 
in fact, contain two women, one of whom seemed to 
be the servant of the other. 

‘¢Such women always run in couples,” said Hulot. 

A lean and sharp-looking little man ambled his horse 
sometimes before, sometimes behind the carriage; but, 
though he was evidently accompanying these privileged 
women, no one had yet seen him speak to them. This 
silence, a proof of either respect or contempt, as the 
case might be; the quantity of baggage belonging to 
the lady, whom the commandant sneeringly called “the 
princess ;” everything, even to the clothes of her at- 
tendant sqnire, stirred Hulot’s bile. The dress of the 
unknown man was a good specimen of the fashions of 
the day then being caricatured as “ incroyable,” — un- 
believable, unless seen. Imagine a person trussed up in 
a coat, the front of which was so short that five or six 
inches of the waistcoat came below it, while the skirts 
were so long that they hung down behind like the tail 
of a cod, —the term then used to describe them. An 
enormous cravat was wound about his neck in so many 
folds that the little head which protruded from that 
muslin labyrinth certainly did justify Captain Merle’s 
comparison. The stranger also wore tight-fitting trou- 
sers and Suwaroff boots. A huge blue-and-white cameo 
pinned his shirt; two watch-chains hung from his belt ; 


The Chouans. 77 


his hair, worn in ringlets on each side his face, con- 
ceuled nearly the whole forehead ; and, for a last adorn- 
ment, the collar of his shirt and that of his coat came 
so high that his head seemed enveloped like a bunch of 
flowers in a horn of paper. Add to these queer acces- 
sories, which were combined in utter want of harmony, 
the burlesque contradictions in color of yellow trousers, 
scarlet waistcoat, cinnamon coat, and a correct idea 
will be gained of the supreme good taste which all 
dandies blindly obeyed in the first years of the Con- 
sulate. This costume, utterly uncouth, seemed to have 
been invented as a final test of grace, and to show that 
there was nothing too ridiculous for fashion to conse- 
crate. The rider seemed to be about thirty years old, 
but he was really twenty-two; perhaps he owed this 
appearance of age to debauchery, possibly to the perils 
of the period. In spite of his preposterous dress, he 
had a certain elegance of manner which proved him 
to be a man of some breeding. 

When the captain had dropped back close to the 
carriage, the dandy seemed to fathom his design, and 
favored it by checking his horse. Merle, who had 
flung him a sardonic glance, encountered one of those 
impenetrable faces, trained by the vicissitudes of the 
Revolution to hide all, even the most insignificant, 
emotion. The moment the curved end of the old tri- 
angular hat and the captain’s epaulets were seen by 
the occupants of the carriage, a voice of angelic sweet- 
ness said: ‘* Monsieur lofticier, will you have the kind- 
ness to tell us at what part of the road we now are?” 

There is some inexpressible charm in the question 
of an unknown traveller, if a woman, —a world of ad- 
venture is in every word; but if the woman asks for 


78 The Chouans. 


assistance or information, proving her weakness or ig- 
norance of certain things, every man is inclined to 
construct some impossible tale which shall lead to his 
happiness. The words, ‘‘ Monsieur Vofficier,” and the 
polite tone of the question stirred the captain’s heart 
in a manner hitherto unknown to him. He tried to 
examine the lady, but was cruelly disappointed, for a 
jealous veil concealed her features ; he could barely see 
her eyes, which shone through the gauze like onyx 
gleaming in the sunshine. 

‘You are now three miles from Alencon, madame,” 
he replied. 

“ Alencon! already!” and the lady threw herself, 
or, rather, she gently leaned back in the carriage, and 
said no more. 

‘¢ Alencon?’”’ said the other woman, apparently wak- 
ing up; “then you ’ll see it again.” 

She caught sight of the captain and was silent. 
Merle, disappointed in his hope of seeing the face of 
the beautiful incognita, began to examine that of her 
companion. She was a girl about twenty six years 
of age, fair, with a pretty figure and the sort of com- 
plexion, fresh and white and well-fed, which character- 
izes the women of Valognes, Bayeux, and the environs 
of Alencon. Her blue eyes showed no great intelli- 
gence, but a certain firmness mingled with tender feeling. 
She wore a gown of some common woollen stuff. The 
fashion of her hair, done up closely under a Norman 
cap, Without any pretension, gave a charming simplicity 
to her face. Her attitude, without, of course, having 
any of the conventional nobility of society, was not with- 
out the natural dignity of a modest young girl, who can 
look back upon her past life without a single cause for 


The Chouans. 79 


repentance. Merle knew her at a glance for one of 
those wild flowers which are sometimes taken from 
their native fields to Parisian hot-houses, where so 
many blasting rays are concentrated, without ever losing 
the purity of their color or their rustic simplicity. 
The naive attitude of the girl and her modest glance 
showed Merle very plainly that she did not wish a lis- 
tener. In fact, no sooner had he withdrawn than the 
two women began a conversation in so low a tone that 
only a murmur of it reached his ear. 

“You came away in such a hurry,” said the country- 
girl, “that you hardly took time to dress. A  pretty- 
looking sight you are now! If we are going beyond 
Alencon you must really make your toilet.” 

“Oh! oh! Francine!” cried the lady. 

“What is it? ” 

“This is the third time you have tried to make me 
tell you the reasons for this journey and where we are 
going.” 

“Wave I said one single word which deserves that 
reproach ? ” 

**Oh, I’ve noticed your manceuyring. Simple and 
truthful as you are, you have learned a little cunning 
from me. You are beginning to hold questioning in 
horror; and right enough, too, for of all the known 
ways of getting ata secret, questions are, to my mind, 
the silliest.” 

** Well,” said Francine, ‘* since nothing escapes you, 
you must admit, Marie, that your conduct would excite 
the curiosity of a saint. Yesterday without a penny, 
to-day your hands are full of gold; at Mortagne they 
give you the mail-coach which was pillaged and the 
driver killed, with government troops to protect you, 


80 The Chouans. 


and you are followed by a man whom I regard as your 
evil genius.” 

“Who? Corentin?” said the young lady, accenting 
the words by two inflections of her voice expressive of 
contempt, a sentiment which appeared in the gesture 
with which she waved her hand towards the rider. 
* Listen, Francine,” she said. “Do you remember 
Patriot, the monkey I taught to imitate Danton?” 

‘¢ Yes, mademoiselle.” 

“Well, were you afraid of him?” 

“ He was chained.” 

“ And Corentin is muzzled, my dear.” 

‘¢ We used to play with Patriot by the hour,” said 
Francine, — “I know that; but he always ended by 
serving us some bad trick.”” So saying, Francine threw 
herself hastily back close to her mistress, whose hands 
she caught and kissed in a coaxing way; saying in a 
tone of deep affection: “You know what J] mean, 
Marie, but you will not answer me. How can you. after 
all that sadness which did so grieve me— oh, indeed 
it grieved me!—how can you, in twenty-four hours, 
change about and become so gay? you, who talked of 
suicide! Why have you changed? I have a right to 
ask these questions of your soul —it is mine, my claim 
to it is before that of others, for you will never be better 
loved than you are by me. Speak, mademoiselle.” 

“Why, Francine, don’t you see all around you the 
secret of my good spirits? Look at the yellowing tufts 
of those distant tree-tops; not one is like another. As 
we look at them from this distance don’t they seem like 
an old bit of tapestry? See the hedges from behind 
which the Chouans may spring upon us at any moment. 
When I look at that gorse I fancy I can see the muzzles 


The Chouans. 81 


of their guns. Every time the roadis shady under 
the trees I fancy I shall hear firing, and then my heart 
beats and anew sensation comes over me. It is neither 
the shuddering of fear nor an emotion of pleasure ; no, 
it is better than either, it is the stirring of everything 
within me — it is life! Why should n't I be gay when 
a little excitement is dropped into my monotonous 
existence?” 

‘¢ Ah! you are telling me nothing, cruel girl! Holy 
Virgin!” added Francine, raising her eyes in distress 
to heaven; ‘* to whom will she confess herself if she 
denies the truth to me?” 

“Francine,” said the lady, in a grave tone, “I can’t 
explain to you my present enterprise ; it is horrible.” 

‘Why do wrong when you know it to be wrong ?” 

‘* How can I help it? I catch myself thinking as if 
I were fifty, and acting as if I were still fifteen. You 
have always been my better self, my poor Francine, but 
in this affair I must stifle conscience. And,” she 
added after a pause, with a deep sigh, “I cannot. 
Therefore, how can you expect me to take a confessor 
as stern as you?” and she patted the girl’s hand. 

‘*When did I ever blame your actions?” cried 
Francine. - ‘‘ Evil is so mixed with good in your 
nature. Yes, Saint Anne of Auray, to whom I pray 
to save you, will absolve you for all you do. And, 
Marie, am I not here beside you, without so much 
as knowing where you go?” and she kissed her 
hands with effusion. 

** But,” replied Marie, *‘you may yet desert me, 
if your conscience —” 

‘* Hush, hush, mademoiselle,” cried Francine, with 
a hurt expression. ‘* But surely you will tell me —” 

6 


b 


82 The Chouans. 


“Nothing!” said the young lady, in a resolute 
voice. ‘Only —and I wish you to know it— I hate 
this enterprise even more than I hate him whose gilded 
tongue induced me to undertake it. I will be frank 
and own to you that I would never have yielded to 
their wishes if I had not foreseen, in this ignoble 
farce, a mingling of love and danger which tempted 
me. I cannot bear to leave this empty world without 
at least attempting to gather the flowers that it owes 
me, — whether I perish in the attempt or not. But 
remember, for the honor of my memory, that had I 
ever been a happy woman, the sight of their great knife, 
ready to fall upon my neck, would not have driven me 
to accept a part in this tragedy — for it is a tragedy. 
But now,” she said, with a gesture of disgust, ‘+ if it 
were countermanded, I should instantly fling myself 
into the Sarthe. It would not be destroying life, for 
I have never lived.” 

*¢ Oh, Saint Anne of Auray, forgive her!” 

‘¢ What are you so afraid of ? You know very well that 
the dull round of domestic life gives no opportunity for 
my passions. That would be bad in most women, I 
admit ; but my soul is made of a higher sensibility and 
can bear great tests. I might have been, perhaps, a 
gentle being like you. Why, why have I risen above 
or sunk beneath the level of my sex? Ah! the wife of 
Bonaparte is a happy woman! Yes, I shall die young, 
for I am gay, as you say, — gay at this pleasure-party, 
where there is }lood to drink, as that poor Danton used 
to say. There, there, forget what I am saying; it 
is the woman of fifty who speaks. Thank God! the 
girl of fifteen is still within me.” 

The young country-girl shuddered. She alone knew 





The Chouans. 83 


the fiery, impetuous nature of her mistress. She alone 
was initiated into the mysteries of a soul rich with 
enthusiasm, into the secret emotions of a being who, 
up to this time, had seen life pass her like a shadow 
she could not grasp, eager as she was to do so. After 
sowing broadcast with full hands and harvesting noth- 
ing, this woman was still virgin in soul, but irritated by 
a multitude of baffled desires. Weary of a struggle 
without an adversary, she had reached in her despair to 
the point of preferring good to evil, if it came in the 
form of enjoyment; evil to good, if it offered her some 
poetic emotion; misery to mediocrity, as something 
nobler and higher; the gloomy and mysterious future 
of present death to a life without hopes or even with- 
out sufferings. Never in any heart was so much 
powder heaped ready for the spark, never were so many 
riches for love to feed on; no daughter of Eve was ever 
moulded, with a greater mixture of gold in her clay. 
Francine, like an angel of earth, watched over this 
being whose perfections she adored, believing that she 
obeyed a celestial mandate in striving to bring that 
spirit back among the choir of seraphim whence it was 
banished for the sin of pride. 

‘*There is the clock-tower of Alencon,” said the 
horseman, riding up to the carriage. 

“T see it,” replied the young lady, in a cold tone. 

“ Ah, well,” he said, turning away with all the signs of 
servile submission, in spite of his disappointment. 

‘*Go faster,” said the lady to the postilion. ‘There 
is no longer any danger; go at a fast trot, or even a 
gallop, if you can; we are almost into Alencon.” 

As the carriage passed the commandant, she called 
out to him, in a sweet voice: — 


84 The Chouans. 


‘*We will meet at the inn, commandant. Come and 
see me.” 

‘* Yes, yes,” growled the commandant. ‘*‘Theinn’! 
‘Come and see me’! Is that how you speak to an officer 
in command of the army?” and he shook his fist at the 
carriage, which was now rolling rapidly along tbe road. 

‘*Don’t be vexed, commandant, she has got your 
rank as general up her sleeve,” said Corentin, laugh- 
ing, as he endeavored to put his horse into a gallop to 
overtake the carriage. 

‘‘T sha’n’t let myself be fooled by any such folks as 
they,” said Hulot to his two friends, in a growling 
tone. “I’d rather throw my general's coat into that 
ditch than earn it out of a bed. What are these birds 
after? Have you any idea, either of you?” 

* Yes,’’ said Merle, ‘‘I’ve an idea that that’s the 
handsomest woman I ever saw! I think you’re read- 
ing the riddle all wrong. Perhaps she’s the wife of the 
First Consul.” 

“Pooh! the First Consul’s wife is old, and _ this 
woman is young,” said Hulot. “ Besides, the order I 
received from the minister gives her name as Made- 
moiselle de Verneuil. She is a eci-devant. Don't I 
know ’em? They all plied one trade before the Revo- 
lution, and any man could make himself a major, or a 
general in double-quick time; all he had to do was to 
say ‘Dear heart’ to them now and then.” 

While each soldier opened his compasses, as the com- 
mandant was wont to say, the miserable vehicle which 
was then used as the mail-coach drew up before the 
inn of the Trois Maures, in the middle of the main 
street of Alengon. The sound of the wheels brought 
the landlord to the door. No one in Alengon could 


The Chouans. 8) 


have expected the arrival of the mail-coach at the 
Trois Maures, for the murderous attack upon the 
coach at Mortagne was already known, and so many 
people followed it along the street that the two wo- 
men, anxious to escape the curiosity of the crowd, ran 
quickly into the kitchen, which forms the inevitable 
antechamber to all Western inns. The landlord was 
about to follow them, after examining the coach, when 
the postilion caught him by the arm. 

‘* Attention, citizen Brutus,” he said; ‘* there’s an 
escort of the Blues behind us; but it is I who bring you 
these female citizens; they ’ll pay like cé-devant prin- 
cesses, therefore —” 

‘¢ Therefore, we ’li drink a glass of wine together 
presently, my lad,” said the landlord. 

After glancing about the kitchen, blackened with 
smoke, and noticing a table bloody from raw meat, 
Mademoiselle de Verneuil flew into the next room with 
the celerity of a bird; for she shuddered at the sight 
and smell of the place, and feared the inquisitive eyes 
of a dirty chef, and a fat little woman who examined 
her attentively. 

“What are we to do, wife?” said the landlord. 
“Who the devil could have supposed we would have 
so many on our hands in these days? Before I serve 
her a decent breakfast that woman will get impatient. 
Stop, an idea! evidently she is a person of quality. 
I’ll propose to put her with the one we have upstairs. 
What do you think?” 

When the landlord went to look for the new arrival 
he found only Francine, to whom he spoke in a low 
voice, taking her to the farther end of the kitchen, so 
as not to be overheard. 


86 The Chouans. 


‘©Tf the ladies wish,” he said, ‘‘to be served in 
private, as I have no doubt they do, I have a very nice 
breakfast all ready for a lady and her son, and I dare 
say would n’t mind sharing it with you; they are per- 
sons of condition,” he added, mysteriously. 

He had hardly said the words before he felt a tap on 
his back from the handle of a whip. He turned hastily 
and saw behind him a short, thick-set man, who had 
noiselessly entered from a side room, — an apparition 
which seemed to terrify the hostess, the cook, and the 
scullion. The landlord turned pale when he saw the 
intruder, who shook back the hair which concealed his 
forehead and eyes, raised himself on the points of his 
toes to reach the other’s ears, and said to him in a 
whisper: “ You know the cost of an imprudence or a 
betrayal, and the color of the money we pay itin. We 
are generous in that coin.” 

He added a gesture which was like a horrible com- 
mentary to his words. Though the rotundity of the 
landlord prevented Francine from seeing the stranger, 
who stood behind him, she caught certain words of his 
threatening speech, and was thunderstruck at hearing 
the hoarse tones of a Breton voice. She sprang towards 
the man, but he, seeming to move with the agility of a 
wild animal, had already darted through a side door 
which opened on the courtyard. Utterly amazed, she 
ran to the window. Through its panes, yellowed with 
smoke, she caught sight of the stranger as he was about 
to enter the stable. Before doing so, however, he 
turned a pair of black eyes to the upper story of the 
inn, and thence to the mail-coach in the yard, as if to 
call some friend’s attention to the vehicle. In spite of 
his mufling goatskin and thanks to this movement 


The Chouans. 87 


which allowed her to see his face, Francine recognized 
the Chouan, Marche-a-Terre, with his heavy whip; she 
saw him, indistinctly, in the obscurity of the stable, 
fling himself down on a pile of straw, in a position 
which enabled him to keep an eye on all that happened 
at the inn. Marche-a-Terre curled himself up in such 
a way that the cleverest spy, at any distance far or 
near, might have taken him for one of those huge dogs 
that drag the hand-carts, lying asleep with his muzzle 
on his paws. 

The behavior of the Chouan proved to Francine that 
he had not recognized her. Under the hazardous cir- 
cumstances which she felt her mistress to be in, she 
scarcely knew whether to regret or to rejoice in this 
unconsciousness. But the mysterious connection be- 
tween the landlord’s offer (not uncommon among inn- 
keepers, who can thus kill two birds with one stone), 
and the Chouan’s threats, piqued her curiosity. She 
left the dirty window from which she could see the 
formless heap which she knew to be Marche-d-Terre, 
and returned to the landlord, who was still standing in 
the attitude of a man who feels he has made a blunder, 
and does not know how to get out of it. The Chouan’s 
gesture had petrified the poor fellow. No one in the 
West was ignorant of the crucl refinements of torture 
with which the “ Chasseurs du Roi” punished those who 
were even suspected of indiscretion; the landlord felt 
their knives already at his throat. The cook looked 
with a shudder at the tron stove on which they often 
“warmed” (* chauffaient”’) the feet of those they sus- 
pected. The fat landlady held a knife in one hand and 
a half-peeled potato in the other, and gazed at her hus- 
band with a stupefied air. Even the scullion puzzled 


88 The Chouans. 


himself to know the reason of their speechless terror. 
Francine’s curiosity was naturally excited by this si- 
lent scene, the principal actor of which was visible to all, 
though departed. The girl was gratified at the evident 
power of the Chouan, and though by nature too simple 
and humble for the tricks of a lady's maid, she was also 
far too anxious to penetrate the mystery not to profit 
by her advantages on this occasion. 

‘¢ Mademoiselle accepts your proposal,” she said to 
the landlord, who jumped as if suddenly awakened by 
her words. 

‘¢ What proposal?” he asked with genuine surprise. 

‘What proposal?” asked Corentin, entering the 
kitchen. 

‘* What proposal?” asked Mademoiselle de Verneuil, 
returning to it. 

“What proposal?” asked a fourth individual on the 
lower step of the staircase, who now sprang lightly into 
the kitchen. 

“Why the breakfast with your persons of distine- 
tion,” replied Francine, impatiently. 

“Distinction!” said the ringing and ironical voice of 
the person who had just come down the stairway. 
“My good fellow, that strikes me as a very poor inn 
joke; but if it’s the company of this young female citi- 
zen that you want to give us, we should be fools to re- 
fuse it. In my mother’s absence, I accept,’ he added, 
striking the astonished inn-keeper on the shoulder. 

The charming heedlessness of youth disguised the 
haughty insolence of the words, which drew the atten- 
tion of every one present to the new-comer. The land- 
lord at once assumed the countenance of Pilate washing 
his hands of the blood of that just man; he slid back 


The Chouans. 89 


two steps to reach his wife’s ear, and whispered, “ You 
are witness, if any harm comes of it, that it is not my 
fault. But, anyhow,” he added, in a voice that was 
lower still, “ go and tell Monsieur Marche-a-Terre what 
has happened.” 

The traveller, who was a young man of medium 
height, wore a dark blue coat and high black gaiters 
coming above the knee and over the breeches, which 
were also of blue cloth. This simple uniform, with- 
out epaulets, was that of the pupils of the Ecole Poly- 
technique. Beneath this plain attire Mademoiselle de 
Verneuil could distinguish at a glance the elegant shape 
and nameless something that tells of natural nobility, 
The face of the young man, which was rather ordinary 
at first sight, soon attracted the eye by the conforma- 
tion of certain features which revealed a soul capable 
of great things. A bronzed skin, curly fair hair, spark- 
ling blue eyes, a delicate nose, motions full of ease, all 
disclosed a life guided by noble sentiments and trained 
to the habit of command. But the most characteristic 
signs of his nature were in the chin, which was dented 
like that of Bonaparte, and in the lower lip, which 
joined the upper one with a graceful curve, like that of 
an acanthus leaf on the capital of a Corinthian column. 
Nature had given to these two features of his face an 
irresistible charm. 

“This young man has singular distinction if he is 
really arepublican,” thought Mademoiselle de Verneuil. 

To see all this at a glance, to brighten at the thought 
of pleasing, to bend her head softly and smile coquet- 
tishly and cast a soft look able to revive a heart that 
was dead to love, to veil her long black eyes with lids 
whose curving lashes made shadows on her cheeks, to 


oe 


aL ere 
Px ae 


90 The Chouans. 


choose the melodious tones of her voice and give a 
penetrating charm to the formal words, “ Monsieur, we 
are very much obliged to you,” —all this charming 
by-play took less time than it has taken to describe 
it. After this, Mademoiselle de Verneuil, addressing 
the landlord, asked to be shown to a room, saw the 
staircase, and disappeared with Francine, leaving the 
stranger to discover whether her reply was intended 
as an acceptance or a refusal. 

“Who is that woman?” asked the Polytechnique 
student, in an airy manner, of the landlord, who still 
stood motionless and bewildered. 

“That ’s the female citizen Verneuil,” replied Coren- 
tin, sharply, looking jealously at the questioner; ‘*a 
ci-devant ; what is she to you?” 

The stranger, who was humming a revolutionary tune, 
turned his head haughtily towards Corentin. The two 
young men looked at each other for a moment like 
cocks about to fight, and the glance they exchanged 
gave birth to a hatred which lasted forever. The blue 
eye of the young soldier was as frank and honest as the 
green eye of the other man was false and malicious ; 
the manners of the one had native grandeur, those of 
the other were insinuating; one was eager in his ad- 
rance, the other deprecating ; one commanded respect, 
the other sought it. 

“Ts the citizen du Gua Saint-Cyr here?” said a peas- 
ant, entering the kitchen at that moment. 

“What do you want of him?” said the young man, 
coming forward. 

The peasant made a low bow and gave him a letter, 
which the young cadet read and threw into the fire; 
then he nodded his head and the man withdrew. 





The Chouans. 91 


“No doubt you’ve come from Paris, citizen?” said 
Corentin, approaching the stranger with a certain ease 
of manner, and a pliant, affable air which seemed intol- 
erable to the citizen du Gua. 

“ Yes,” he replied, shortly. 

‘*T suppose you have been graduated into some 
grade of the artillery?” 

“No, citizen, into the navy.’’ 

“ Ah! then you are going to Brest?” said Corentin, 
interrogatively. 

But the young sailor turned lightly on the heels of 
his shoes without deigning to reply, avd presently dis- 
appointed all the expectations which Mademoiselle de 
Verneuil had based on the charm of his appearance. 
He applied himself to ordering his breakfast with the 
eagerness of a boy, questioned the cook and the land- 
lady about their receipts, wondered at provincial cus- 
toms like a Parisian just out of his shell, made as 
many objections as any fine lady, and showed the more 
lack of mind and character because his face and man- 
ners had seemed to promise them. Corentin smiled with 
pity when he saw the face he made on tasting the best 
cider of Normandy. 

** Meu!” he cried; ‘*how can you swallow such stuff 
as that? It is meat and drink both. I don’t wonder 
the Republic distrusts a province where they knock their 
harvest from trees with poles, and shoot travellers from 
the ditches. Pray don’t put such medicine as that on 
the table; give us some good Bordeaux, white and red. 
And above all, do see if there is a good fire upstairs. 
These country-people are so backward in civilization!” 
he added. ‘* Alas!” sighing, ‘* there is but one Paris in 
the world; what a pity it is I can’t transpot it to sea! 


92 The Chouans. 


Heavens! spoil-sauce! ” he suddenly cried ont to the 
cook; “ what makes you put vinegar in that fricassee 
when you have lemons? And, madame,” he added, 
“you gave me such coarse sheets I couldn't close my 
eyes all night.” Then he began to twirl a huge cane, 
executing with a silly sort of care a variety of evolu- 
tions, the greater or less precision and agility of which 
were considered proofs of a young man’s standing in 
the class of the Incroyables, so-called. 

“ And it is with such dandies as that,” said Corentin 
to the Jandlord confidentially, watching his face, “ that 
the Republic expects to improve her navy!” 

“That man,” said the young sailor to the landlady, 
in a low voice, “is a spy of Fouche’s. He has ‘ police,’ 
stamped on his face, and I'll swear that spot he has got 
on his chin is Paris mud. Well, set a thief to catech—” 

Just then a lady to whom the young sailor turned 
with every sign of outward respect, entered the kitchen 
of the inn. 

‘*My dear mamma.” he said. “T am glad you’ve 
come. I have recruited some guests in your absence.” 

“Guests?” she replied; “what folly!” 

“Tt is Mademoiselle de Verneuil,’ he said in a low 
voice. 

“ She perished on the scaffold after the affair of Save- 
nay, she went to Mans to save her brother the Prince 
de Loudon,” returned his mother, rather brusquely. 

“Yon are mistaken, madame,” said Corentin, gently, 
emphasizing the word “madame;” ‘there are two 
demoiselles de Verneuil; all great houses, as you know, 
have severai branches.” 

The lady, surprised at this freedom, drew back a few 
steps to examine the speaker; she turned her black 








The Chouans. 93 


eyes upon him, full of the keen sagacity so natural to 
women, seeking apparently to discover in what interest 
he stepped forth to explain Mademoiselle de Verneuil’s 
birth. Corentin, on the other hand, who was studying 
the lady cautiously, denied her in his own mind the joys 
of motherhood and gave her those of love ; he refused the 
possession of a son of twenty to a woman whose daz- 
zling skin, and arched eyebrows, and lashes still un- 
blemished, were the objects of his admiration, and 
whose abundant black hair, parted on the forehead into 
simple bands, brought out the youthfulness of an intel- 
ligent head. The slight lines of the brow, far from in- 
dicating age, revealed young passions. Though the 
piercing eyes were somewhat veiled, it was either from 
the fatigue of travelling or the too frequent expression of 
excitement. Corentin remarked that she was wrapped in 
a mantle of English material, and that the shape of her 
hat, foreign no doubt, did not belong to any of the styles 
called Greek, which ruled the Parisian fashions of the 
period. Corentin was one of those beings who are 
compelled by the bent of their natures to suspect evil 
rather than good, and he instantly doubted the citizen- 
ship of the two travellers. The lady, who, on her side, 
had made her observations on the person of Corentin 
with equal rapidity, turned to her son with a significant 
look which may be faithfully translated into the words: 
*¢ Who is this queer man? Is he of our stripe?” 

To this mute inquiry the youth replied by an atti- 
tude and a gesture which said: ‘* Faith! I can’t tell; 
but I distrust him. Then, leaving his mother to fathom 
the mystery, he turned to the landlady and whispered : 
“Try to find out who that fellow is; and whether he 
is really accompanying the young lady; and why.” 


94 — The Chouans. 


“So,” said Madame du Gua, looking at Corentin, 
“you are quite sure, citizen, that Mademoiselle de Ver 
neuil is living?” 

‘¢ She is living in flesh and blood as surely, madame, 
as the citizen du Gua Saint-Cyr.” 

This answer contained a sarcasm, the hidden meaning 
of which was known to none but the lady herself, and 
any one but herself would have been disconcerted by 
it. Her son looked fixedly at Corentin, who coolly 
pulled out his watch without appearing to notice the 
effect of his answer. The lady, uneasy and anxious to 
discover at once if the speech meant danger or was 
merely accidental, said to Corentin in a natural tone 
and manner: ‘* How little security there is on these 
roads. We were attacked by Chouans just beyond 
Mortagne. My son came very near being killed; he 
received two balls in his hat while protecting me.” 

‘*Is it possible, madame? were you in the mail- 
coach which those brigands robbed in spite of the es- 
cort, — the one we have just come by? You must know 
the vehicle well. They told me at Mortagne that the 
Chouans numbered a couple of thousands and that 
every one in the coach was killed, even the travellers. 
That’s how history is written! Alas! madame,” he 
continued, “if they murder travellers so near to Paris 
you can fancy how unsafe the roads are in Brittany. I 
shall return to Paris and not risk myself any farther.” 

“Ts Mademoiselle de Verneuil young and hand- 
some?” said the lady to the hostess, struck suddenly 
with an idea. ‘ | 

Just then the Jandlord interrupted the conversation, 
in which there was something of an angry clement, by 
announcing that breakfast was ready. The young 


my Su” 


The Chouans. 95 


sailor offered his hand to his mother with an air of false 
familiarity that confirmed the suspicions of Corentin, to 
whom the youth remarked as he went up the stairway : 
“Citizen, if you are travelling with the female citizen 
de Verneuil, and she accepts the landlord's proposal, 
you can come too.” 

Though the words were said in a careless tone and 
were not inviting, Corentin followed. The young man 
squeezed the lady’s hand when they were five or six 
steps above him, and said, in a low voice: ‘* Now you 
see the dangers to which your imprudent enterprises, 
which have no glory in them, expose us. If we are 
discovered, how are we to escape? And what a 
contemptible rdle you force me to play!” 

All three reached a large room on the upper floor. 
Any one who has travelled in the West will know that 
the landlord had, on such an occasion, brought forth 
his best things to do honor to his guests, and prepared 
the meal with no ordinary luxury. The table was care- 
fully laid. The warmth of a large fire took the damp- 
ness from the room. ‘The linen, glass, and china were 
not too dingy. Corentin saw at once that the landlord 
had, as they say familiarly, cut himself in quarters to 
please the strangers. ‘* Consequently,” thought he, 
“these people are not what they pretend to be. That 
young man is clever. I took him for a fool, but I begin 
to believe him as shrewd as myself.” 

The sailor, his mother, and Corentin awaited Made- 
moiselle de Verneuil, whom the landlord went to sum- 
mon. But the handsome traveller did not come. The 
youth expected that she would make difficulties, and he 
left the room, humming the popular song, ‘“‘ Guard the 


nation’s safety,” and went to that of Mademoisclle de 


96 The Chouans. 


Verneuil, prompted by a keen desire to get the better 
of her scruples and take her back with him. Perhaps 
he wanted to solve the doubts which filled his mind; or 
else to exercise the power which all men like to think 
they wield over a pretty woman. 

‘* May I be hanged if he’s a Republican,” thought 
Corentin, as he saw him go. ‘*He moves his shoulders 
like a courtier. And if that’s his mother,” he added, 
mentally, looking at Madame du Gua, ‘* I’m the Pope! 
They are Chouans; and I’ll make sure of their quality.” 

The door soon opened and the young man entered, 
holding the hand of Mademoiselle de Verneuil, whom 
he led to the table with an air of self-conceit that was 
nevertheless courteous. The devil had not allowed 
that hour which had elapsed since the lady’s arrival 
to be wasted. With Francine’s assistance, Mademoi- 
selle de Verneuil had armed herself with a travelling- 
dress more dangerous, perhaps, than any ball-room 
attire. Its simplicity had precisely that attraction 
which comes of the skill with which a woman, hand- 
some enough to wear no ornaments, reduces her dress 
to the position of a secondary charm. She wore a 
green gown, elegantly cut, the Jacket of which, braided 
and frogged, defined her figure in a manner that was 
hardly suitable for a young girl, allowing her supple 
waist and rounded bust and graceful motions to be 
fully seen. She entered the room smiling, with the 
natural amenity of women who can show a fine set of 
tecth. transparent as porcelain between rosy lips, and 
dimpling cheeks as fresh as those of childhood. Having 
removed the close hood which had almost concealed 
her head at her first meeting with the young sailor, she 
could now employ at her ease the various little artifices, 


The Chouans. 97 


apparently so artless, with which a woman shows off 
the beauties of her face and the grace of her head, and 
attracts admiration for them. A certain harmony be- 
tween her manners and her dress made her seem so 
much younger than she was that Madame du Gua 
thought herself beyond the mark in supposing her over 
twenty. The coquetry of her apparel, evidently worn to 
please, was enough to inspire hope in the young man’s 
breast; but Mademoiselle de Verneuil bowed to hin, 
as she took her place, with a slight inclination of her 
head and without looking at him, putting him aside 
with an apparently light-hearted carelessness which 
disconcerted him. This coolness might have seemed 
to an observer neither caution nor coquetry, but indif- 
ference, natural or feigned. The candid expression on 
the young lady’s face only made it the more impene- 
trable. She showed no consciousness of her charms, 
and was apparently gifted with the pretty manners that 
win all hearts, and had already duped the natural self- 
conceit of the young sailor. Thus bafiled, the youth 
returned to his own seat with a sort of vexation. 

Mademoiselle de Verneuil took Francine, who ac- 
companied her, by the hand and said, in a caressing 
voice, turning to Madame de Gua: ‘** Madame, will you 
have the kindness to allow this young girl, who is more 
a friend than a servant to me, to sit with us? In these 
perilous times such devotion as hers can only be repaid 
by the heart; indeed, that is very nearly all that is 
left to us.” 

Madame du Gua replied to the last words, which 
were said half aside, with a rather unceremonious bow 
that betrayed her annoyance at the beauty of the new- 
comer. Then she said, in a low voice, to her son: 


- 


‘ 


98 The Chouans. 


‘6+ Perilous times,’ ‘devotion,’ ‘madame,’ ‘servant’! 
that is not Mademoiselle de Verneuil; it is some girl 
sent here by Fouche.” 

The guests were about to sit ree when Mademoi- 
selle de Verneuil noticed Corentin, who was still em- 
ployed in a close scrutiny of the mother and son, who 
were showing some annoyance at his glances. 

*¢ Citizen,” she said to him, “you are no doubt too 
well bred to dog my steps. The Republic, when it 
sent my parents to the scaffold, did not magnani- 
mously provide me with a guardian. Though you have, 
from extreme and chivalric gallantry accompanied me 
against my will to this place” (she sighed), ‘*I am 
quite resolved not to allow your protecting care to 
become a burden to you. I am safe now, and you 
can leave me.” 

She gaye him a fixed and contemptuous look. Co- 
rentin understood her; he repressed the smile which 
almost curled the corners of his wily lips as he bowed 
to her respectfully. 

‘¢ Citoyenne,” he said, ‘*it is always an honor to 
obey you. Beauty is the only queen a Republican 
“an serve.” 

Mademoiselle de Verneuil’s eyes, as she watched him 
depart, shone with such natural pleasure, she looked 
at Francine with a smile of intelligence which betrayed 
so much real satisfaction, that Madame du Gua, who 
grew prudent as she grew jealous, felt disposed to 
relinquish the suspicions which Mademoiselle de Ver- 
neuil’s great benuty had forced into her mind. 

“It may be Mademoiselle de Verneuil, after all,” 
she whispered to her son. 

* But that escort?” answered the young man, whose 


The Chouans. 99 


vexation at the young lady’s indifference allowed him 
to be cautious. ‘*Is she a prisoner or an“emissary, a 
friend or an enemy of the government? ” 

Madame du Gua made a sign as if to say that she 
would soon clear up the mystery. 

However, the departure of Corentin seemed to lessen 
the young man’s distrust, and he began to cast on 
Mademoiselle de Verneuil certain looks which betrayed 
an immoderate admiration for women, rather than the 
respectful warmth of a dawning passion. The young 
girl grew more and more reserved, and gave all her 
attentions to Madame du Gua. The youth, angry 
with himself, tried, in his vexation, to turn the tables 
and seem indifferent. Mademoiselle de Verneuil ap- 
peared not to notice this manceuvre; she continued 
to be simple without shyness and reserved without 
prudery. 

This chance meeting of personages who, apparently, 
were not destined to become intimate, awakened no 
agreeable sympathy on either side. ‘There was even a 
sort of vulgar embarrassment, an awkwardness which 
destroyed all the pleasure which Mademoiselle de Ver- 
neuil and the young sailor had begun by expecting. 
But women have such wonderful conventional tact, 
they are so intimately allied with each other, or they 
have such keen desires for emotion, that they always 
know how to break the ice on such occasions. Sud- 
denly, as if the two beauties had the same thought, 
they began to tease their solitary knight in a playful 
way, and were soon vying with each other in the 
jesting attention which they paid to him; this unan- 
imity of action left them free. At the end of half 
an hour, the two women, already secret enemies, were 


100 The Chouans. 


apparently the best of friends. The young man then 
discovered that he felt as angry with Mademoiselle de 
Verneuil for her friendliness and freedom as he had 
been with her reserve. In fact, he was so annoyed 
by it that he regretted, with a sort of dumb anger, 
having allowed her to breakfast with them. 

** Madame,” said Mademoiselle de Verneuil, “is 
your son always as gloomy as he is at this moment?” 

** Mademoiselle,” he replied, ‘sf ask myself what is 
the good of a fleeting happiness. The secret of my 
gloom is the evanescence of my pleasure.” 

‘*That is a madrigal,” she said, laughing, ‘* which 
rings of the Court rather than the Polytechnique.” 

‘* My son only expressed a very natural thought, 
mademoiselle,” said Madame du Gua, who had her own 
reasons for placating the stranger. 

‘*Then laugh while you may,” said Mademoiselle de 
Verneuil, smiling at the young man. ‘* How do you 
look when you have really something to weep for, if 
what you are pleased to call a happiness makes you 
so disinal?” 

This smile, accompanied by a provoking glance 
which destroyed the consistency of her reserve, revived 
the youth’s feelings. But inspired by her nature, which 
often impels a woman to do either too much or too 
little under such circumstances, Mademoiselle de Ver- 
neuil, having covered the young man with that brilliant 
look fall of love’s promises, immediately withdrew 
from his answering expression into a cold and severe 
modesty, —a conventional performance by which a wo- 
iman sometimes hides a true emotion. Ina moment, a 





single moment, when each expected to see the eyelids 
of the other lowered, they had comununicated to one 


The Chouans. 101 


another their real thoughts ; but they veiled their glances 
as quickly as they had mingled them in that one flash 
which conyulsed their hearts and enlightened them. 
Confused at having said so many things in a single 
glance, they dared no longer look at each other. Made- 
moiselle de Verneuil withdrew into cold politeness, and 
seemed to be impatient for the conclusion of the meal. 

** Mademoiselle, you must have suffered very much 
in prison?” said Madame du Gua. 

‘* Alas, madame, I sometimes think that I am still 
there.” 

‘‘Is your escort sent to protect you, mademoiselle, 
or to watch you? Are you still suspected by the 
Republic?” 

Mademoiselle de Verneuil felt instinctively that 
Madame du Gua had no real interest in her, and the 
question alarmed her. 

‘¢ Madame,” she replied, “I really do not know 
myself the exact nature of my relations to the Re- 
public.” 

‘¢ Perhaps it fears you?” said the young man, rather 
satirically. 

‘+ We must respect her secrets,” interposed Madame 
du Gua. 

‘¢Oh, madame, the secrets of a young girl who 
knows nothing of life but its misfortunes are not 
interesting.” 

‘+ But,” answered Madame du Gua, wishing to con- 
tinue a conversation which might reveal to her all that 
she wanted to know, ‘*the First Consul seems to 
have excellent intentions. They say that he is going 
to remove the disabilities of the émigrés.” 

“That is true, madame,” she replied, with rather too 


102 The Chouans. 


much eagerness, ‘‘ and if so, why do we rouse Brittany 
and La Vendée? Why bring civil war into France? ” 

This eager cry, in which she seemed to share her 
own reproach, made the young sailor quiver. He 
looked earnestly at her, but was unable to detect either 
hatred or love upon her face. Her beautiful skin, the 
delicacy of which was shown by the color beneath it, 
was impenetrable. A sudden and invincible curiosity 
attracted him to this strange creature, to whom he was 
already drawn by violent desires. 

“ Madame,” said Mademoiselle de Verneuil, after a 
pause, ‘‘ may I ask if you are going to Mayenne?” 

‘* Yes, mademoiselle,” replied the young man with a 
questioning look. 

“Then, madame,” she continued, ‘‘ as your son serves 
the Republic ” (she said the words with an apparently 
indifferent air, but she gave her companions one of 
those furtive glances the art of which belongs to women 
and diplomatists), ‘‘ you must fear the Chouans, and an 
escort is not to be despised. We are now almost trayel- 
ling companions, and I hope you will come with me to 
Mayenne.” 

Mother and son hesitated, and seemed to consult each 
other's faces. 

‘*T am not sure, mademoiselle,” said the young man, 
‘¢ that it is prudent in me to tell you that interests of 


the highest importance require our presence to-night in~ 


the neighborhood of Fougéres, and we have not yet been 
able to finda means of conveyance; but women are so 
naturally generous that Iam ashamed not to confide in 
you. Nevertheless,” he added, ‘* before putting our- 
sclves in your hands, I ought to know whether we shall 
be able to get out of them safe and sound. In short, 


The Chouans. 103 


mademoiselle, are you the sovereign or the slave of 
your Republican escort? Pardon my frankness, but 
your position does not seem to me exactly natural —” 

“We live in times, monsieur, when nothing takes 
place naturally. You can accept my proposal without 
anxiety. Above all,” she added, emphasizing her words, 
‘*you need fear no treachery in an offer made by a 
woman who has no part in political hatreds.” 

‘¢ A journey thus made is not without danger,” he 
said, with a look which gave significance to that com- 
monplace remark. 

“What is it you fear?” she answered, smiling sar- 
castically. ‘‘ I see no peril for any one.” 

‘*Ts this the woman who a moment ago shared my 
desires in her eyes?” thought the young man. ‘* What 
a tone in her voice! she is laying a trap for me.” 

At that instant the shrill ery of an owl which ap- 
peared to have perched on the chimney top vibrated in 
the air like a warning. 

“What does that mean?” said Mademoiselle de Ver- 
neuil. “Our journey together will not begin under 
favorable auspices. Do owls in these parts screech by 
daylight?” she added, with a surprised gesture. 

‘¢ Sometimes,” said the young man, coolly. ‘* Made- 
moiselle,” he continued, “we may bring you ill-luck ; 
you are thinking of that, I am sure. We had better 
not travel together.” 

These words were said with a calmness and reserve 
which puzzled Mademoiselle de Verneuil. 

‘* Monsieur,” she replied, with truly aristocratic in- 
solence, “I am far from wishing to compel you. Pray 
let us keep the little liberty the Republic leaves us. If 
Madame were alone, I should insist — ” 


104 The Chouans. 


The heavy step of a soldier was heard in the passage, 
and the Commandant Hulot presently appeared in the 
doorway with a frowning brow. 

“Come here, colonel,” said Mademoiselle de Ver- 
neuil, smiling and pointing to a chair beside her. “ Let 
us talk over the affairs of State. But what is the mat- 
ter with you? Are there Chouans here?” 

The commandant stood speechless on eatching sight 
of the young man, at whom he looked with peculiar 
attention. 

‘¢ Mamma, will you take some more hare? Made- 
moiselle, you are not eating,” said the sailor to Francine, 
seeming busy with the guests. 

But Ifulot’s astonishment and Mademoiselle de Ver- 
neuil’s close observation had something too dangerously 
serious about them to be ignored. 

‘* What is it, citizen?” said the young man, abruptly ; 
“do you know me?” 

** Perhaps I do,” replied the Republican. 

“You are right; I remember you at the School.” 

“T never went to any school,’ said the soldier, 
roughly. “ What school do you mean?” 

“The Polytechnique.” 

“TTa, ha, those barracks where they expect to make 
soldiers in dormitories,” said the veteran, whose aver- 
sion for officers trained in that nursery was insurmount- 
able. «To what arm do you belong?” 

*¢T am in the navy.” 

“Wa!” cried Hulot, smiling vindictively, ‘*how 
many of your fellow-students are in the navy? Don’t 
you know,” he added in a serious tone, ** that none but 
the artillery and the engineers eraduate from there?” 

The young man was not disconcerted. 


The Chouans. 105 


‘¢ An exception was made in my favor, on account of 
the name I bear,” he answered. ‘* We are all naval 
men in our family.” 

‘* What is the name of your family, citizen?” asked 
Hulot. 

‘* Du Gua Saint-Cyr.” 

‘¢Then you were not killed at Mortagne?” 

‘¢TTe came very near being killed,” said Madame du 
Gua, quickly ; ‘* my son received two balls in —” 

“Where are your papers?” asked Hulot, not listen- 
ing to the mother. 

“Do you propose to read them?” said the young 
man, cayalierly; his blue eye, keen with suspicion, 
studied alternately the gloomy face of the command- 
ant and that of Mademoiselle de Verneuil. 

‘* A stripling like you to pretend to fool me! Come, 
produce your papers, or —”’ 

‘La! la! citizen, I’m not such a babe as I look to 
be. Why should I answer you?) Who are you?” 

‘¢ The commander of this department,” replied Hulot. 

‘¢Oh, then, of course, the matter is serious; I am 
taken with arms in my hand,” and he held out a glass 
full of Bordeaux to the soldier. 

**T am not thirsty,’ said Hulot. ‘Come, your 
papers.” 

At that instant the rattle of arms and the tread of 
men was heard in the street. Hulot walked to the 
window and gave a satisfied look which made Made- 
moiselle de Verneuil tremble. That sign of interest on 
her part seemed to fire the young man, whose face had 
grown cold and haughty. After feeling in the pockets 
of his coat he drew forth an elegant portfolio and pre- 
sented certain papers to the commandant, which the 


106 The Chouans. 


latter read slowly, comparing the description given in 
the passport with the face and figure of the young man 
before him. During this prolonged examination the 
owl’s cry rose again; but this time there was no difli- 
culty whatever in recognizing a human voice. The 
commandant at once returned the papers to the young 
man, with a scofling look. 

“That’s all very fine,’ he said; “but I don’t like 
the music. You will come with me to headquarters.” 

“ Why do you take him there?” asked Mademoiselle 
de Verneuil, in a tone of some excitement. 

“My good lady,” replied the commandant, with his 
usual grimace, “ that’s none of your business.” 

Irritated by the tone and words of the old soldier, but 
still more at the sort of humiliation offered to her in 
presence of a man who was under the influence of her 
charms, Mademoiselle de Verneuil rose, abandoning the 
simple and modest manner she had hitherto adopted ; 
her cheeks glowed and her eyes shone as she said in a 
quiet tone but with a trembling voice: “ ‘Tell me, has 
this young man met all the requirements of the law?” 

“ Yes — apparently,” said Iulot ironically. 

“Then, I desire that you will leave him, apparently, 
alone,” she said. ‘* Are you afraid he will escape you? 
You are to escort him with me to Mayenne; he will be 
in the coach with his mother. Make no objection; it 
is my will— Well, what?” she added, noticing Hulot’s 
grimace ; do you suspect him still?” 

“ Rather.” 

“What do you want to do with him?” 

“Oh, nothing; balance his head with a little lead 
perhaps. Ife’s a giddy-pate!”’ said the commandant, 
ironically. 





The Chouans. 107 


“Are you joking, colonel?” cried Mademoiselle de 
Verneuil. 

“Come!” said the commandant, nodding to the 
young man, ‘make haste, let us be off.” 

At this impertinence Mademoiselle de Verneuil be- 
came calm and smiling. 

“Do not go,” she said to the young man, protecting 
him with a gesture that was full of dignity. 

‘*Oh, what a beautiful head!” said the youth to his 
mother, who frowned heavily. 

Annoyance, and many other sentiments, aroused 
and struggled with, did certainly bring fresh beauties 
to the young woman’s face. Francine, Madame du 
Gua, and her son had all risen from their seats. 
Mademoiselle de Verneuil hastily advanced and stood 
between them and the commandant, who smiled amu- 
sedly ; then she rapidly unfastened the frogged fasten- 
ings of her jacket. Acting with that blindness which 
often seizes women when their self-love is threatened 
and they are anxious to show their power, as a child is 
impatient to play with a toy that has just been given to 
it, she took from her bosom a paper and presented it 
to Hulot. 

“ Read that,” she said, with a sarcastic laugh. 

Then she turned to the young man and gave him, 
in the excitement of her triumph, a look in which mis- 
chief was mingled with an expression of love. Their 
brows cleared, joy flushed each agitated face, and a 
thousand contradictory thoughts rose in their hearts. 
Madame du Gua noted in that one look far more of love 
than of pity in Mademoiselle de Verneuil’s intervention ; 
and she was right. The handsome creature blushed 
beneath the other woman’s gaze, understanding its 


108 The Chouans. 


meaning, and dropped her eyelids; then, as if aware of 
some threatening accusation, she raised her head 
proudly and defied all eyes. The commandant, petri- 
fied, returned the paper, countersigned by ministers, 
which enjoined all authorities to obey the orders of this 
mysterious lady. Having done so, he drew his sword, 
laid it across his knees, broke the blade, and flung away 
the pieces. 

‘* Mademoiselle, you probably know what you are 
about; but a Republican has his own ideas, and his 
own dignity. I cannot serve where women command. 
The First Consul will receive my resignation to-morrow 3 
others, who are not of my stripe, may obey you. Ido 
not understand my orders and therefore I stop short, — 
all the more because I am supposed to understand 
them.” : 

There was silence for a moment, but it was soon 
broken by the young lady, who went up to the com- 
mandant and held out her hand, saying, ‘* Colonel, 
though your beard is somewhat long, you may kiss my 
hand; you are, indeed, a man!” 

‘*T flatter myself I am, mademoiselle,” he replied, 
depositing a kiss upon the hand of this singular young 
woman rather awkwardly. ‘* As for you, friend,” he 
said, threatening the young man with his finger, ** you 
have had a narrow escape this time.” 

‘*Commandant,” said the youth, “it is time all this 
nonsense should cease; IT am ready to go with you, if 
you like, to headquarters.” 

‘* And bring your invisible owl, Marche-it-Terre? ” 

‘Who is Marche-a-Terre?” asked the young man, 
with all the signs of genuine surprise. 

** Did n’t he hoot just now 


vey) 


The Chouans. 109 


“ What did that hooting have to do with me, I 
should like to know? I supposed it was your soldiers 
letting you know of their arrival.” 

** Nonsense, you did not think that.” 

“ Yes, I did. But do drink that glass of Bordeaux ; 
the wine is good.” 

Surprised at the natural behavior of the youth and 
also by the frivolity of his manners and the youthfulness 
of his face, made even more juvenile by the careful 
curling of his fair hair, the commandant hesitated in the 
midst of his suspicions. He noticed that Madame du 
Gua was intently watching the glances that her son 
gave to Mademoiselle de Verneuil, and he asked her 
abruptly: ‘* How old are you, eztoyenne ?” 

‘* Ah, Monsieur Vofficier,” she said, “the rules of 
the Republic are very severe; must I tell you that I 
am thirty-eight?” 

‘*May I be shot if I believe it! Marche-a-Terre is 
here ; it was he who gave that cry; you are Chouans in 
disguise. God’s thunder! I7’ll search the inn and 
make sure of it!” 

Just then a hoot, somewhat like those that preceded 
it, came from the courtyard; the commandant rushed 
out, and missed seeing the pallor that covered Madame 
du Gua’s face as he spoke. Hulot saw at once that 
the sound came from a postilion harnessing his horses 
to the coach, and he cast aside his suspicions, all the 
more because it seemed absurd to suppose that the 
Chouans would risk themselves in Alengon. He re- 
turned to the house confounded. 

‘*T forgive him now, but later he shall pay dear for 
the anxiety he has given us,” said the mother to the 
son, in a low voice, as Hulot re-entered the room. 


110 The Chouans. 


The brave old officer showed on his worried face the 
struggle that went on in his mind betwixt a stern sense 
of duty and the natural kindness of his heart. He kept 
his gruff air, partly, perhaps, because he fancied he had 
deceived himself, but he took the glass of Bordeaux, 
and said: ‘* Excuse me, comrade, but your Polytech- 
nique does send such young officers —” 

“The Chouans have younger ones,” said the youth, 
laughing. 

‘*For whom did you take my son?” asked Madame 
du Gua. 

“For the Gars, the leader sent to the Chouans and 
the Vendéans by the British cabinet; his real name is 
Marquis de Montauran.” 

The commandant watched the faces of the suspected 
pair, who looked at each other with a puzzled expres- 
sion that seemed to say: ‘* Do you know that name?” 
“No, do you?” “What is he talking about?” “He’s 
dreaming.” 

The sudden change in the manner of Marie de 
Verneuil, and her torpor as she heard the name of 
the royalist general was observed by no one but Fran- 
cine, the only person to whom the least shade on that 
young face was visible. Completely routed, the com- 
mandant picked up the bits of his broken sword, looked 
at Mademoiselle de Verneuil, whose ardent beauty was 
beginning to find its way to his heart, and said: ‘* As 
for you, mademoiselle, I take nothing back, and to- 
morrow these fragments of my sword will reach Bona- 
parte, unless —” 

“Pooh! what do I care for Bonaparte, or your re- 
public, or the king, or the Gars?” she cried, scarcely 
repressing an explosion of ill-bred temper. 


The Chouans. $2 


A mysterious emotion, the passion of which gave to 
her face a dazzling color, showed that the whole world 
was nothing to the girl the moment that one individual 
was all in all to her. But she suddenly subdued 
herself into forced calmness, observing, like a trained 
actor, that the spectators were watching her. The 
commandant rose hastily and went out. Anxious 
and agitated, Mademoiselle de Verneuil followed him, 
stopped him in the corridor, and said, in an almost 
solemn tone: ‘* Have you any good reason to suspect 
that young man of being the Gars?” 

‘* God’s thunder! mademoiselle, that fellow who rode 
here with you came back to warn me that the trav- 
ellers in the mail-coach had all been murdered by the 
Chouans; I knew that, but what I didn’t know was 
the name of the murdered persons, —it was Gua de 
Saint-Cyr!” 

‘¢Oh! if Corentin is at the bottom of all this, nothing 
surprises me,” she cried, with a gesture of disgust. 

The commandant went his way without daring to 
look at Mademoiselle de Verneuil, whose dangerous 
beauty began to affect him. 

‘Tf Thad stayed two minutes longer I should have 
committed the folly of taking back my sword and es- 
corting her,” he was saying to himself as he went down 
the stairs. 

As Madame du Gua watched the young man, whose 
eyes were fixed on the door through which Mademoi- 
selle de Verneuil had passed, she said to him in a low 
voice: ‘** You are incorrigible. You will perish through 
a woman. A doll can make you forget everything. 
Why did you allow her to breakfast with us? Who is 
a Demoiselie de Verneuil escorted by the Blues, who 


113 The Chouans. 


accepts a breakfast from strangers and disarms an of- 
ficer with a paper hidden in the bosom of her gown like 
a love-letter? She is cne of those contemptible crea- 
tures by whose aid Fouch*4 expects to lay hold of you, 
and the paper she showed the commandant ordered the 
Blues to assist her against you.” 

‘*Eh! madame,” he replied in a sharp tone which 
went to the lady’s heart and turned her pale; ‘her 
generous action disproves your supposition. Pray re- 
member that the welfare of the king is the sole bond 
between us. You, who have had Charette at your feet 
must find the world without him empty; are you not 
living to avenge him?” 

The lady stood still and pensive, like one who sees 
from the shore the wreck of all her treasures, and only 
the more eagerly longs for the vanished property. 

Mademoiselle de Verneuil re-entered the room; the 
young man exchanged a smile with her and gave her 
a glance full of gentle meaning. However uncertain 
the future might seem, however ephemeral their union, 
the promises of their sudden love were only the more 
endearing to them. Rapid as the glance was, it did not 
escape the sagacious eye of Madame du Gua, who in- 
stantly understood it; her brow clouded, and she was 
unable to wholly conceal her jealous anger. Francine 
was observing her; she saw the eyes glitter, the cheeks 
flush; she thought she perceived a diabolical spirit in 
the face, stirred by some sudden and terrible revulsion. 
But lightning is not more rapid, nor death more prompt 
than this brief exhibition of inward emotion. Madame 
du Gua recovered her lively manner with such immedi- 
ate self-possession that Francine fancied herself mis- 
taken, Nevertheless, having once perceived in this 


The Chouans. 113. 


woman a violence of feeling that was fully equal to that 
of Mademoiselle de Verneuil, she trembled as she fore- 
saw the clash with which such natures might come to- 
gether, and the girl shuddered when she saw Made- 
moiselle de Verneuil go up to the young man with a 
passionate look and, taking him by the hand, draw him 
close beside her and into the light, with a coquettish 
gesture that was full of witchery. 

‘¢ Now,” she said, trying to read his eyes, “own to 
me that you are not the citizen du Gua Saint-Cyr.” 

‘* Yes, I am, mademoiselle.” 

“ But he and his mother were killed yesterday.” 

“T am very sorry for that,” he replied, laughing. 
“However that may be, I am none the less under a— 
great obligation to you, for which I shall always feel the 
deepest gratitude and only wish I could prove it to 
you,” 

“T thought I was saving an émigré, but I love you 
better as a Republican.” 

The words escaped her lips as it were impulsively ; 
she became confused ; even her eyes blushed, and her 
face bore no other expression than one of exquisite sim- 
plicity of feeling ; she softly released the young man’s 
hand, not from shame at having pressed it, but because 
of a thought too weighty, it seemed, for her heart to 
bear, leaving him drunk with hope. Suddenly she ap- 
peared to regret this freedom, permissible as it might 
be under the passing circumstances of a journey. She 
recovered her conventional manner, bowed to the lady 
and her son, and taking Francine with her, left the 
room. When they reached their own chamber Francine 
wrung her hands and tossed her arms, as she looked at 
her mistress, saying: “Ah, Marie, what a crowd of 

8 


114 The Chouans. 


things in a moment of time! who but you would have 
such adventures?” 

Mademoiselle de Verneuil sprang forward and clasped 
Francine round the neck. 

‘‘ Ah! this is life indeed — I am in heaven!” 

‘¢ Or hell,” retorted Francine. 

‘© Yes, hell if you like!” cried Mademoiselle de Ver- 
neuil. ‘* Here, give me your hand; feel my heart, how 
it beats. There’s fever in my veins; the whole world 
is now a mere nothing to me! How many times have 
I not seen that man in my dreams! Oh! how beauti- 
ful his head is — how his eyes sparkle!” 

“ Will he love you?” said the simple peasant-woman, 
in a quivering voice, her face full of sad foreboding. 

** How can you ask me that!” cried Mademoiselle de 
Verneml. ‘' But, Francine, tell me,” she added throw- 
ing herself into a pose that was half serious, half comic, 
‘* will it be very hard to love me?” 


‘No, but will he love you always?” replied Fran- 


cine, smiling. 

They looked at each other for a moment speechless, 
— Francine at revealing so much knowledge of life, 
and Marie at the perception, which now came to her 
for the first time, of a future of happiness in her pas- 
sion. She seemed to herself hanging over a gulf of 
which she had wanted to know the depth, and listening 
to the fall of the stone she had flung, at first heedlessly, 
into it. 

“Well, it is my own affair,” she said, with the gcs- 
ture of a gambler. ‘* IT should never pity a betrayed 
woman; she has no one but herself to blame if she is 
abandoned. I shall know how to keep, either living or 
dead, the man whose heart has once been mine. But,” 


The Chouans. 415 


she added, with some surprise and after a moment’s 
silence, ‘‘ where did you get your knowledge of love, 
Francine?” 

‘¢ Mademoiselle,” said the peasant-woman, hastily, 
‘‘hush, I hear steps in the passage.” 

“Ah! not Avs steps!” said Marie, listening. “But 
you are evading an answer; well, well, I’ll wait for it, 
or guess it.” 

Francine was right, however. Three taps on the 
door interrupted the conversation. Captain Merle ap- 
peared, after receiving Mademoiselle de Verneuil’s 
permission to enter. 

With a military salute to the lady, whose beauty 
dazzled him, the soldier ventured on giving her a 
glance, but he found nothing better to say than: 
‘¢ Mademoiselle, I am at your orders.” 

‘Then you are to be my protector, in place of the 
commander, who retires; is that so?” 

‘*No, my superior is the adjutant-major Gérard, 
who has sent me here.” 

‘*Your commandant must be very much afraid of 
me,” she said. 

‘¢Bego pardon, mademoiselle, Hulot is afraid of 
nothing. But women, you see, are not in his line; 
it ruffled him to have a general in a mob-cap.” 

‘* And yet,” continued Mademoiselle de Verneuil, 
‘‘it was his duty to obey his superiors. I like sub- 
ordination, and I warn you that I shall allow no one 
to disobey me.” 

‘* That would be difficult,” replied Merle, gallantly. 

** Let us consult,” said Mademoiselle de Verneuil. 
‘*You can get fresh troops here and accompany me 
to Mayenne, which I must reach this evening. Shall 


116 The Chouans. 


we find other soldiers there, so that I might go on at 
once, without stopping at Mayenne? The Chouans are 
quite ignorant of our little expedition. If we travel 
at night, we can avoid meeting any number of them, 
and so escape an attack. Do you think this feasible?” 

‘* Yes, mademoiselle.” 

“What sort of road is it between Mayenne and 
Fougeres ?” 

** Rough; all up and down, a regular squirrel-wheel.” 

‘“¢ Well, let us start at once. As we have nothing to 
fear near Alengon, you can go before me; we'll join 
you soon.” 

‘One would think she had seen ten years’ service,” 
thought Merle, as he departed. ‘‘ Hulot is mistaken ; 
that young girl is not earning her living out of a 
feather-bed. Ten thousand cartridges! if I want to 
be adjutant-major I mustn’t be such a fool as to 
mistake Saint-Michael for the devil.” 

During Mademoiselle de Verneuil’s conference with 
the captain, Francine had slipped out for the purpose 
of examining, through a window of the corridor, the 
spot in the courtyard which had excited her curiosity 
on arriving at the inn. She watched the stable and 
the heaps of straw with the absorption of one who was 
saying her prayers to the Virgin, and she presently saw 
Madame du Gua approaching Marche-a-Terre with the 
precaution of a cat that dislikes to wet its feet. When 
the Chouan caught sight of the lady, he rose and stood 
before her in an attitude of deep respect. This singular 
circumstance roused Francine’s curiosity; she slipped 
into the courtyard and along the walls, avoiding 
Madame du Gua’s notice, and trying to hide herself 
behind the stable door. She walked on tiptoe, scarcely 


The Chouans. ph 


daring to breathe, and succeeded in posting herself 
close to Marche-a-Terre, without exciting his attention. 

“Tf, after all this information,” the lady was saying 
to the Chouan, ‘* it proves not to be her real name, you 
are to fire upon her without pity, as you would on a 
mad dog.” 

“ Agreed!” said Marche-a-Terre. 

The lady left him. The Chouan replaced his red 
woollen cap upon his bead, remained standing, and 
was scratching his ear as if puzzled when Francine 
suddenly appeared before him, apparently by magic. 

“Saint Anne of Auray!” he exclaimed. Then he 
dropped his whip, clasped his hands, and stood as if in 
ecstasy. A faint color illuminated his coarse face, and 
his eyes shone like diamonds dropped on a muck-heap. 
‘Ts it really the brave girl from Cottin?” he muttered, 
in a voice so smothered that he alone heard it. ‘“ You 
are fine,” he said, after a pause, using the curious 
word, “godaine,” a superlative in the dialect of those 
regions used by lovers to express the combination of 
fine clothes and beauty. 

“JT daren’t touch you,” added Marche-a-Terre, 
putting out his big hand nevertheless, as if to weigh 
the gold chain which hung round her neck and below 
her waist. 

“You had better not, Pierre,” replied Francine, 
inspired by the instinct which makes a woman despotic 
when not oppressed. She drew back haughtily, after 
enjoying the Chouan’s surprise; but she compensated 
for the harshness of her words by the softness of her 
glance, saying, as she once more approached him: 
‘* Pierre, that lady was talking to you about my young 
mistress, wasn't she?” 


118 The Chouans. 


Marche-a-Terre was silent; his face struggled, like 
the dawn, between clouds and light. He looked in 
turn at Francine, at the whip he had dropped, and at 
the chain, which seemed to have as powerful an attract- 
tion for him as the Breton girl herself. Then, as if to 
put a stop to his own uneasiness, he picked up his whip 
and still kept silence. 

“Well, it is easy to see that that lady told you to 
kill my mistress,” resumed Francine, who knew the 
faithful discretion of the peasant, and wished to relieve 
his scruples. 

Marche-a-Terre lowered his head significantly. To 
the Cottin girl that was answer enough. 

“Very good, Pierre,” she said; ‘if any evil happens 
to her, if a hair of her head is injured, you and I will 
have seen each other for the last time; for I shall be in 
heaven, and you will go to hell.” 

The possessed of devils whom the Church in for- 
mer days used to exorcise with great pomp were not 
more shaken and agitated than Marche-a-Terre at this 
prophecy, uttered with a conviction which gave it 
certainty. His glance, which at first had a character 
of savage tenderness, counteracted by a fanaticism as 
powerful in his soul as love, suddenly became surly, as 
he felt the imperious manner of the girl he had long 
since chosen. Francine interpreted his silence in her 
own way. 

** Won’t you do anything for my sake?” she said in 
a tone of reproach. 

At these words the Chouan cast a glance at his mis- 
tress from eyes that were black as a crow’s wing. 

“ Are you free?” he asked ina growl that Francine 
alone could have understood. 


The Chouans. 119 


‘¢ Should I be here if I were not? ” she replied, indig- 
nantly. ‘* But you, what are you doing here? Still 
playing bandit, still roaming the country like a mad dog 
wanting to bite. Oh! Pierre, if you were wise you 
would come with me. This beautiful young lady, who, 
I ought to tell you, was nursed when a baby in our 
home, has taken care of me. I have two hundred franes 
a year from a good investment. And Mademoiselle has 
bought me my uncle Thomas’s big house for fifteen hun- 
dred franes, and I have saved two thousand beside.” 

But her smiles and the announcement of her wealth 
fell dead before the dogged immovyability of the Chouan. 

‘¢ The priests have told us to go to war,’’ he replied. 
‘¢ Every Blue we shoot earns one indulgence.” 

“ But suppose the Blues shoot you?” 

He answered by Jetting his arms drop at his sides, as 
if regretting the poverty of the offering he should thus 
make to God and the king. 

‘¢ What will become of me?” exclaimed the young 
girl, sorrowfully. 

Marche-a-Terre looked at her stupidly; his eyes 
seemed to enlarge; tears rolled down his hairy cheeks 
upon the goatskin which covered him, and a low moan 
came from his breast. 

‘*Saint Anne of Auray!— Pierre, is this all you 
have to say to me after a parting of seven years? You 
have changed indeed.” 

‘¢T love you the same as ever,” said the Chouan, in a 
a gruff voice. 

‘* No,” she whispered, ‘* the king is first.” 

*¢ Tf you look at me like that I shall go,” he said. 

“Well, then, adieu,” she replied, sadly. 

“ Adieu,” he repeated. 


120 The Chouans. 


He seized her hand, wrung it, kissed it, made the 
sign of the cross, and rushed into the stable, like a dog 
who fears that his bone will be taken from him. 

‘+ Pille-Miche,” he said to his comrade. “ Where’s 
your tobacco-box?” 

“Ho! sacré bleu! what a fine chain !” cried Pille-Miche, 
fumbling in a pocket constructed in his goatskin. 

Then he held out to Marche-a-Terre the little horn in 
which Bretons put the finely powdered tobacco which 
they prepare themselves during the long winter nights. 
The Chouan raised his thumb and made a hollow in 
the palm of his hand, after the manner in which an 
‘‘ Invalide” takes his tobacco; then he shook the horn, 
the small end of which Pille-Miche had unserewed. A 
fine powder fell slowly from the little hole pierced in 
the point of this Breton utensil. Marche-a-Terre went 
through the same process seven or eight times silently, as 
if the powder had power to change the current of his 
thoughts. Suddenly he flang the horn to Pille-Miche 
with a gesture of despair, and caught upa gun which 
was hidden in the straw. 

‘¢ Seven or eight shakes at once! I suppose you think 
that costs nothing!” said the stingy Pille-Miche. 

‘¢ Forward! ”’ cried Marche-a-Terre in a hoarse voice. 
‘¢'here’s work before us.” 

Thirty or more Chouans who were sleeping in the 
straw under the mangers, raised their heads, saw 
Marche-a-Terre on his feet, and disappeared instantly 
through a door which led to the garden, from which it 
was easy to reach the fields. 

When Francine left the stable she found the mail- 
coach ready to start. Mademoiselle de Verneuil and 
her new fellow-travellers were already in it. The girl 


The Chouans. 2et 


shuddered as she saw her young mistress sitting side 
by side with the woman who had just ordered her death. 
The young man had taken his seat facing Marie, and as 
soon as Francine was in hers the heavy vehicle started 
at a good pace. 

The sun had swept away the gray autumnal mists, 
and its rays were brightening the gloomy landscape 
with a look of youth and holiday. Many lovers fancy 
that such chance accidents of the sky are premonitions. 
Francine was surprised at the strange silence which fell 
upon the travellers. Mademoiselle de Verneuil had re- 
covered her cold manner, and sat with her eyes lowered, 
her head slightly inclined, and her hands hidden under 
a sort of mantle in which she had wrapped herself. If 
she raised her eyes it was only to look at the passing 
scenery. Certain of being admired, she rejected adini- 
ration; but her apparent indifference was evidently 
more coquettish than natural. Purity, which gives such 
harmony to the diverse expressions by which a simple 
soul reveals itself, could lend no charm to a being whose 
every instinct predestined her to the storms of passion. 
Yielding himself up to the pleasures of this dawning in- 
trigue, the young man did not try to explain the contra- 
dictions which were obyious between the coquetry and 
the enthusiasm of this singular young girl. Her as- 
sumed indifference allowed him to examine at his ease 
a face which was now as beautiful in its calmness as it 
had been when agitated. Like the rest of us, he was 
not disposed to question the sources of his enjoyment. 

It is difficult for a pretty woman to avoid the glances 
of her companions in a carriage when their eyes fasten 
upon her as a visible distraction to the monotony of a 
journey. Happy, therefore, in being able to satisfy the 


1 The Chouans. 


hunger of his dawning passion, without offence or avoid- 
ance on the part of its object, the young man studied 
the pure and brilliant lines of the girl’s head and face. 
To him they were a picture. Sometimes the light 
brought out the transparent rose of the nostrils and the 
double curve which united the nose with the upper lip; 
at other times a pale glint of sunshine illuminated the 
tints of the skin, pearly beneath the eyes and round the 
mouth, rosy on the cheeks, and ivory-white about the 
temples and throat. He admired the contrasts of light 
and shade caused by the masses of black hair surround- 
ing her face and giving it an ephemeral grace, — for all 
is fleeting in a woman; her beauty of to-day is often 
not that of yesterday, fortunately for herself, perhaps ! 
The young man, who was still at an age when youth 
delights in the nothings which are the all of love, 
watched eagerly for each movement of the eyelids, and 
the seductive rise and fall of her bosom as she breathed. 
Sometimes he fancied, suiting the tenor of his thoughts, 
that he could see a meaning in the expression of the 
eyes and the imperceptible inflection of the lips. Every 
gesture betrayed to him the soul, every motion a new 
aspect of the young girl. If a thought stirred those 
mobile features, if a sudden blush suffused the cheeks, 
ora smile brought life into the face, he found a fresh 
delight in trying to discover the secrets of this myste- 
rious creature. Everything about her was a snare to 
the soul and a snare to the senses. Even the silence 
that fell between them, far from raising an obstacle to 
the understanding of their hearts, became the common 
ground for mutual thoughts. But after a while the 
many looks in which their eyes encountered each other 
warned Marie de Verneuil that the silence was com- 


xf 
ee 


The Chouans. : 123 


promising her, and she turned to Madame du Gua with 
one of those commonplace remarks which open the 
way to conversation; but even in so doing she included 
the young man. 

‘* Madame,” she said, ‘*how could you put your 
son into the navy? have you not doomed yourself to 
perpetual anxiety?” 

‘* Mademoiselle, the fate of women, of mothers I 
should say, is to tremble for the safety of their dear 
ones.” 

‘* Your son is very like you.” 

‘¢Do you think so, mademoiselle?” 

The smile with which the young man listened to 
these remarks increased the vexation of his pretended 
mother. Her hatred grew with every passionate glance 
he turned on Marie. Silence or conversation, all in- 
creased the dreadful wrath which she carefully concealed 
beneath a cordial manner. 

‘¢ Mademoiselle,” said the young man, ‘‘you are 
quite mistaken. Naval men are not more exposed to 
danger than soldiers. Women ought not to dislike the 
navy; we sailors have a merit beyond that of the 
military, — we are faithful to our mistresses.” 

‘* Oh, from necessity,” replied Mademoiselle de Ver- 
neuil, laughing. 

‘* But even so, it is fidelity,” said Madame du Gua, 
in a deep voice. 

The conversation grew lively, touching upon subjects 
that were interesting to none but the three travellers, 
for under such circumstances intelligent persons give 
new meanings to commonplace talk; but every word, 
insignificant as it might seem, was a mutual interroga- 
tion, hiding the desires, hopes, and passions which 


124 The Chouans. 


agitated them. Marie’s cleverness and quick percep- 
tions (for she was fully on her guard) showed Madame 
du Gua that calumny and treachery could alone avail 
to triumph over a rival as formidable through her intel- 
lect as by her beauty. The mail-coach presently over- 
took the escort, and then advanced more slowly. The 
young man, seeing a long hill before them, proposed to 
the young lady that they should walk. The friendly 
politeness of his offer decided her, and her consent 
flattered him. 

“Ts Madame of our opinion?” she said, turning to 
Madame du Gua. ‘ Will she walk, too?” 

*¢ Coquette!” said the lady to herself, as she left the 
coach. 

Marie and the young man walked together, but a 
little apart. The sailor, full of ardent desires, was 
determined to break the reserve that checked him, of 
which, however, he was not the dupe. He fancied he 
could sueceed by dallying with the young lady in that 
tone of courteous amiability and wit, sometimes frivo- 
lous, sometimes serious, always chivalric and occasion- 
ally satirical, which characterized the men of the exiled 
aristocracy. But the smiling Parisian beauty parried 
him so mischievously, and rejected his frivolities with 
such disdain, evidently preferring the stronger ideas 
and enthusiasms which he betrayed from time to time 
in spite of himself, that he presently began to un- 
derstand the true way of pleasing her. The con- 
versation then changed. He realized the hopes her 
expressive face had given him; yet, as he did so, new 
difficulties arose, and he was still forced to suspend 
his judgment on a girl who seemed to take delight in 
thwarting him, a siren with whom he grew more and 


The Chouans. 125 


more in love. After yielding to the seduction of her 
beauty he was still more attracted to her mysterious 
soul, with a curiosity which Marie perceived and took 
pleasure in exciting. ‘Their intercourse assumed, 
sensibly, a character of intimacy far removed from the 
tone of indifference which Mademoiselle de Verneuil 
endeavored in vain to give to it. 

Though Madame du Gua had followed the lovers, the 
latter had unconsciously walked so much more rapidly 
than she that a distance of several hundred feet soon 
separated them. The charming pair trod the fine sand 
beneath their feet, listening with childlike delight to the 
union of their footsteps, happy in being wrapped by the 
same ray of a sunshine that seemed spring-like, in 
breathing with the same breath autumnal perfumes 
laden with vegetable odors which seemed a_nourish- 
ment brought by the breezes to their dawning love. 
Though to them it may have been a mere circum- 
stance of their fortuitous meeting, yet the sky, the 
landscape, the season of the year, did communicate 
to their emotions a tinge of melancholy gravity which 
gave them an element of passion. They praised the 
weather and talked of its beauty ; then of their strange 
encounter, of the coming rupture of an intercourse so 
delightful; of the ease with which, in travelling, friend- 
ships, lost as soon as made, are formed. After this 
last remark, the young man profited by what seemed to 
be a tacit permission to make a few tender confidences, 
and to risk an avowal of love like a man who was not 
unaccustomed to such situations. 

‘¢ Have you noticed, mademoiselle,” he said, ** how 
little the feelings of the heart follow the old conven- 
tional rules in the days of terror in which we live? 


126 The Chouans. 


Everything about us bears the stamp of suddenness. 
We love in aday, or we hate on the strength of a single 
glance. We are bound to each other for life in a mo- 
ment, or we part with the celerity of death itself. All 
things are hurried, like the convulsions of the nation. In 
the midst of such dangers as ours the ties that bind 
should be stronger than under the ordinary course of 
life. In Paris during the Terror, every one came to 
know the full meaning of a clasp of the hand as men 
do on a battle-field.” 

‘¢ People felt the necessity of living fast and ar- 
dently,” she answered, “ for they had little time to live.” 
Then, with a glance at her companion which seemed to 
tell him that the end of their short intercourse was ap- 
proaching, she added, maliciously: ‘‘ You are very well 
informed as to the affairs of life, for a young man who 
has just left the Ecole Polytechnique! ” 

‘¢ What are you thinking of me?” he said after a mo- 
ment's silence. ‘* Tell me frankly, without disguise.” 

‘¢'You wish to acquire the right to speak to me of 
myself,” she said laughing. 

‘“¢You do not answer me,” he went on after a slight 
pause. ‘* Take care, silence is sometimes significant.” 

‘¢Do you think I cannot guess all that you would 
like to say tome? Good heavens! you have already 
said enough.” 

** Oh, if we understand each other,” he replied, 
smiling, ‘‘ I have obtained even more than I dared 
hope for.” 

She smiled in return so graciously that she seemed to 
accept the courteous struggle into which all men like to 
draw awoman. ‘They persuaded themselves, half in jest, 
half in earnest, that they never could be more to each 


’ 


The Chouans. Zi 


other than they were at that moment. The young man 
fancied, therefore, he might give reins to a passion that 
could have no future; the young woman felt she might 
smile upon it. Marie suddenly struck her foot against 
a stone and stumbled. 

** Take my arm,” said her companion. 

‘¢ Tt seems I must,” she replied; ‘* you would be too 
proud if I refused; you would fancy I feared you.” 

‘* Ah, mademoiselle,” he said, pressing her arm 
against his heart that she might feel the beating of it, 
** you flatter my pride by granting such a favor.” 

‘¢ Well, the readiness with which I do so will cure 
your illusions.” 

‘*Do you wish to save me from the danger of the 
emotions you cause?” 

‘* Stop, stop!’’ she cried; ‘* do not try to entangle me 
in such boudoir riddles. I don’t like to find the wit of 
fools in a man of your character. See! here we are be- 
neath the glorious sky, in the open country; before us, 
above us, all is grand. You wish to tell me that I am 
beautiful, do you not? Well, your eyes have already 
told me so; besides, I know it; I am not a woman 
whom mere compliments can please. But perhaps you 
would like,” this with satirical emphasis, “to talk 
about your sentiments? Do you think me so simple as 
to believe that sudden sympathies are powerful enough 
to influence a whole life through the recollections of one 
morning?” 

‘* Not the recollections of a morning,” he said, ‘* but 
those of a beautiful woman who has shown herself 
generous.” 

‘* You forget,” she retorted, laughing, ‘‘ half my at- 
tractions, —a mysterious woman, with everything odd 


128 The Chouans. 


about her, name, rank, situation, freedom of thought 
and manners.” 

‘* You are not mysterious to me!” he exclaimed. “I 
have fathomed you; there is nothing that could be 
added to your perfections except a little more faith in 
the love you inspire.” 

“ Ah, my poor child of eighteen, what can you know 
of love?” she said smiling. “ Well, well, so be it! ” she 
added, “it is a fair subject of conversation, like the 
weather when one pays a visit. You shall find that 
I have neither false modesty nor petty fears. I can 
hear the word love without blushing; it has been so 
often said to me without one echo of the heart that I 
think it quite unmeaning. I have met with it every- 
where, in books, at the theatre, in society, — yes, every- 
where, and never have I found in it even a semblance 
of its magnificent ideal.” 

“Did you seek that ideal?” 

Tes.” 

The word was said with such perfect ease and free- 
dom that the young man made a gesture of surprise and 
looked at Marie fixedly, as if he had suddenly changed 
his opinion on her character and real position. 

*¢ Mademoiselle,” he said with ill-concealed emotion, 
“are you maid or wife, angel or devil?” 

** All,” she replied, laughing. “Is n’t there some- 
thing diabolic and also angelic in a young girl who bas 
never loved, does not love, and perhaps will never 
love?” 

‘*Do you think yourself happy thus?” he asked with 
a free and easy tone and manner, as though already he 
felt less respect for her. 

‘*Oh, happy, no,” she replied. ** When I think that 


The Chouans. 129 


T am alone, hampered by social conventions that make 
me deceitful, [envy the privileges of a man. But when 
I also reflect on the means which nature has bestowed 
on us women to catch and entangle you men in the in- 
visible meshes of a power which you cannot resist, then 
the part assigned me in the world is not displeas- 
ing to me, And then again, suddenly, it does seem 
very petty, and I feel that I should despise a man who 
allowed himself to be duped by such vulgar seductions. 
No sooner do I perceive our power and like it, than I 
know it to be horrible and I abhor it. Sometimes I 
feel within me that longing towards devotion which 
makes my sex so nobly beautiful; and then I feel a 
desire, which consumes me, for dominion and power. 
Perhaps it is the natural struggle of the good and the 
evil principle in which all creatures live here below. 
Angel or devil! you have expressed it. Ah! to-day is 
not the first time that I have recognized my double 
nature. But we women understand better than you 
men can do our own shortcomings. We have an in- 
stinct which shows us a perfection in all things to 
which, nevertheless, we fail to attain. But,” she 
added, sighing as she glanced at the sky; ‘* that which 
enhances us in your eyes is — ” 

“*Is what?” he said. 

“that we are all struggling, more or less,” she 
answered, ‘* against a thwarted destiny.” 

“Mademoiselle, why should we part to-night?” 

‘© Ah!” she replied, smiling at the passionate look 
which he gave her, “let us get into the carriage; the 
open air does not agree with us.” 

Marie turned abruptly ; the young man followed her, 
and pressed her arm with little respect, but in a manner 

9 


130 The Chouans. : 


that expressed his imperious admiration. She hastened 
her steps. Seeing that she wished to escape an impor- 
tunate declaration, he became the more ardent; being 
determined to win a first favor from this woman, he 
risked all and said, looking at her meaningly : — 

*¢ Shall I tell you a secret? ” 

“ Yes, quickly, if it concerns you.” 

‘*T am not in the service of the Republic. Where 
are you going? I shall follow you.” 

At the words Marie trembled violently. She with- 
drew her arm and covered her face with both hands to 
hide either the flush or the pallor of her cheeks; then 
she suddenly uncovered her face and said in a voice of 
deep emotion : — 

‘*Then you began as you would have ended, by 
deceiving me?” 

“ Yes,” he said. 

At this answer she turned again from the carriage, 
which was now overtaking them, and began to almost 
run along the road. 

** 7 thought,” he said, following her, ‘that the open 
air did not agree with you?” 

“Oh! it has changed,” she replied in a grave tone, 
continuing to walk on, a prey to agitating thoughts. 

“You do not answer me,” said the young man, his 
heart full of the soft expectation of coming pleasure. 

‘**QOh!” she said, in a strained voice, ‘* the tragedy 
begins.” ; 

‘* What tragedy?” he asked. 

She stopped short, looked at the young student from 
head to foot with a mingled expression of fear and ecuri- 
osity ; then she concealed the feelings that were agitat- 
ing her under the mask of an impenetrable calmness, 





The Chouans. TS1 


showing that for a girl of her age she had great experi- 
ence of life. 

‘*Who are you?” she said, — ** but I know already ; 
when I first saw you I suspected it. You are the roy- 
alist leader whom they call the Gars. The ex-bishop 
of Autun was right in saying we should always believe 
in presentiments which give warning of evil.” 

** What interest have you in knowing the Gars?” 

‘¢What interest has he in concealing himself from 
me who haye already saved his life?” She began to 
laugh, but the merriment was forced. ‘‘I have wisely 
prevented you from saying that you love me. Let me 
tell you, monsieur, that I abhor you. I am republican, 
you are royalist; I would deliver you up if you were 
not under my protection, and if I had not already saved 
your life, and if—” she stopped. These violent ex- 
tremes of feeling and the inward struggle which she no 
longer attempted to conceal alarmed the young man, 
who tried, but in vain, to observe her calmly. ‘+ Let 
us part here at once, —I insist upon it; farewell!” she 
said. She turned hastily back, made a few steps, and 
then returned to him. ‘* No, no,” she continued, ‘ I 
have too great an interest in knowing who you are. 
Hide nothing from me; tell me the truth. Who are 
you? for you are no more a pupil of the Ecole Poly- 
technique than you are eighteen years old.” 

‘¢T am a sailor, ready to leave the ocean and follow 
you wherever your imagination may lead you. If I 
have been so lucky as to rouse your curiosity in any 
particular I shall be very careful not to lessen it. Why 
mingle the serious affairs of real life with the life of the 
heart in which we are beginning to understand each 
other?” 


132 The Chouans. 


“Our souls might have understood each other,” she 
said in a grave voice. ‘* But I have no right to exact 
your confidence. You will never know the extent of 
your obligations to me; I shall not explain them.” 

They walked a few steps in silence. 

‘¢ My life does interest you,” said the young man. 

“ Monsieur, I implore you, tell me your name or else 
be silent. You are a child,” she added, with an impa- 
tient movement of her shoulders, ‘* and I feel a pity for 
you.” 

The obstinacy with which she insisted on knowing 
his name made the pretended sailor hesitate between 
prudence and love. The vexation of a desired woman 
is powerfully attractive ; her anger, like her submission, 
is imperious; many are the fibres she touches in a 
man’s heart, penetrating and subjugating it. Was this 
scene only another aspect of Mademoiselle de Verneuil’s 
coquetry? In spite of his sudden passion the unnamed 
lover had the strength to distrust a woman thus bent 
on forcing from him a secret of life and death. 

‘¢ Why has my rash indiscretion, which sought to give 
a future to our present mecting, destroyed the happiness 
of it?” he said, taking her hand, which she left in his 
unconsciously. 

Mademoiselle de Verneuil, who seemed to be in real 
distress, was silent. 

‘‘ How have I displeased you?” he said. ‘* What 
can I do to soothe you?” 

‘Pell me your name.” 

He made no reply, and they walked some distance in 
silence. Suddenly Mademoiselle de Verneuil stopped 
short, like one who has come to some serious deter: 
mination. 





The Chouans. W335) 


e ** Monsieur le Marquis de Montauran,” she said, with 
dignity, but without being able to conceal entirely the 
nervous trembling of her features, ‘¢ I desire to do you 
a great service, whatever it may cost me. We part 
here. The coach and its escort are necessary for your 
protection, and you must continue your journey in if. 
Fear nothing from the Republicans; they are men of 
honor, and I shall give the adjutant certain orders 
which he will faithfully execute. As for me, I shall 
return on foot to Alencon with my maid, and take a 
few of the soldiers with me. Listen to what I say, for 
your life depends on it. If, before you reach a place 
of safety, you meet that odious man you saw in my 
company at the inn, escape at once, for he will instantly 
betray you. As for me, —” she paused, —‘‘ as for me, 
I fling myself back into the miseries of life. Farewell, 
monsieur, may you be happy ; farewell.” 

She made a sign to Captain Merle, who was just 
then reaching the brow of the hill behind her. The 
marquis was taken unawares by her sudden action. 

‘‘ Stop!” he cried, in a tone of despair that was 
well acted. 

This singular caprice of a girl for whom he would at 
that instant have thrown away his life so surprised 
him, that he invented, on the spur of the moment, a 
fatal fiction by which to hide his name and satisfy the 
curiosity of his companion. 

** You have almost guessed the truth,” he said. ‘T 
am an émigré, condemned to death, and my name is 
Vicomte de Bauvan. Love of my country has brought 
me back to France to join my brother. I hope to be 
taken off the list of émigrés through the influence of 
Madame de Beauharnais, now the wife of the First 


134 The Chouans. 


Consul; but if I fail in this, I mean to die on the soil 
of my native land, fighting beside my friend Mon- 
tauran. I am now on my way secretly, by means of a 
passport he has sent me, to learn if any of my property 
in Brittany is still unconfiscated.” 

While the young man spoke Mademoiselle de Ver- 
neuil examined him with a penetrating eye. She tried 
at first to doubt his words, but being by nature con- 
fiding and trustful, she slowly regained an expression 
of serenity, and said eagerly, ‘* Monsieur, are you 
telling me the exact truth?” 

‘+ Yes, the exact truth,” replied the young man, who 
seemed to have no conscience in his dealings with 
women. 

Mademoiselle de Verneuil gave a deep sigh, like a 
person who returns to life. 

“Ah!” she exclaimed, ‘* I am very happy.” 

‘*Then you hate that poor Montauran?” 

‘* No,” she said; “but I could not make you under- 
stand my meaning. I was not willing that you should 
meet the dangers from which I will try to protect him, 
—since he is your friend.” 

** Who told you that Montauran was in danger?” 

‘* Ah, monsieur, even if I had not come from Paris, 
where his enterprise is the one thing talked of, the 
commandant at Alencon said enough to show his 
danger.” 

‘*Then let me ask you how you expect to save him 
from it.” 

‘* Suppose I do not choose to answer,” she replied, 
with the haughty air that women often assume to hide 
an emotion. ‘* What right have you to know my 
secrets?” 





The Chouans. 186 


*¢' The right of a man who loves you.” 

*¢ Already?” she said. ‘* No, you do not love me. 
Tam only an object of passing gallantry to you, — that 
is all. I am clear-sighted; did I not penetrate your 
disguise at once? A woman who knows anything of 
good society could not be misled, in these days, by a 
pupil of the Polytechnique who uses choice language, 
and conceals as little as you do the manners of a grand 
seigneur under the mask of a Republican. There is a 
trifle of powder left in your hair, and a fragrance of 
nobility clings to you which a woman of the world can- 
not fail to detect. Therefore, fearing that the man 
whom you saw accompanying me, who has all the 
shrewdness of a woman, might make the same dis- 
covery, I sent him away. Monsieur, let me tell you 
that a true Republican officer just from the Polytech- 
nique would not have made love to me as you have 
done, and would not have taken me for a pretty ad- 
venturess. Allow me, Monsieur de Bauvan, to preach 
you a little sermon from a woman’s point of view. Are 
you too juvenile to know that of all the creatures of 
my sex the most difficult to subdue is that same ad- 
venturess, —she whose price is ticketed and who is 
weary of pleasure. That sort of woman requires, 
they tell me, constant seduction; she yields only to 
her own caprices; any attempt to please her argues, 
I should suppose, great conceit on the part of a man. 
But let us put aside that class of women, among 
whom you have been good enough to rank me; you 
ought to understand that a young woman, handsome, 
brilliant, and of noble birth (for, I suppose, you will 
grant me those advantages), does not sell herself, and 
can only be won by the man who loves her in one way. 





136 The Chouans. 


You understand me? If she loves him and is willing 
to commit a folly, she must be justified by great and 
heroic reasons. Forgive me this logic, rare in my sex ; 
but for the sake of your happiness, — and my own,” she 
added, dropping her head, — ‘+I will not allow either 
of us to deceive the other, nor will I permit vou to think 
that Mademoiselle de Verneuil, angel or devil, maid or 
wife, is capable of being seduced by commonplace 
gallantry.” 

‘* Mademoiselle,” said the marquis, whose surprise, 
though he concealed it, was extreme, and who at once 
became a man of the great world, *‘I entreat you to 
believe that I take you to be a very noble person, full 
of the highest sentiments, or —a charming girl, as you 
please.” 

**T don't ask all that,” she said, laughing. “ Allow 
me to keep my incognito. My mask is better than 
yours, and it pleases me to wear it, —if only to dis- 
cover whether those who talk to me of love are sincere, 
Therefore, beware of me! Monsieur,” she cried, catch- 
ing his arm vehemently, ‘‘ isten to me: if you were 


’ 


able to prove that your love is true, nothing, no human 
power, could part us. Yes, I would fain unite myself 
to the noble destiny of some great man, and marry a 
vast ambition. glorious hopes! Noble hearts are never 
faithless, for constancy is in their fibre; I should be 
forever loved, forever happy, —I would make my body 
a stepping-stone by which to raise the man who loved 
me; I would sacrifice all things to him, bear all things 
from him, and love him forever, —even if he ceased to 
love me. I have never before dared to confess to an- 
other heart the secrets of mine, nor the passionate 
enthusiasms which exhaust ime; but I tell you some. 


The Chouans. 1at 


thing of them now because, as soon as I have seen 
you in safety, we shall part forever.” 

‘¢ Part? never!” he cried, electrified by the tones of 
that vigorous soul which seemed to be fighting against 
some overwhelming thought. 

“Are you free?” she said, with a haughty glance 
which subdued him. 

“Tree! yes, except for the sentence of death which 
hangs over me.” 

She added presently, in a voice full of bitter feeling: 
“Tf all this were not a dream, a glorious life might 
indeed be ours. But I have been talking folly; let us 
beware of committing any. When I think of all you 
would have to be before you could rate me at my proper 
value I doubt everything — ” 

** T doubt nothing if you will only grant me —” 

‘¢*Hush!” she cried, hearing a note of true passion 
in his voice, ‘‘ the open air is decidedly disagreeing with 
us; let us return to the coach.” 

That vehicle soon came up; they took their places 
and drove on several miles in total silence. Both had 
matter for reflection, but henceforth their eyes no longer 
feared to meet. Each now seemed to have an equal 
interest in observing the other, and in mutually hid- 
ing important secrets; but for all that they were drawn 
together by one and the same impulse, which now, as a 
result of this interview, assumed the dimensions of a 
passion. They recognized in each other qualities which 
promised to heighten all the pleasures to be derived 
from either their contest or their union. Perhaps both 
of them, living a life of adventure, had reached the sin- 
gular moral condition in which, either from weariness 
or in defiance of fate, the mind rejects serious reflection 


138 The Chouans. 


and flings itselfon chance in pursuing an enterprise pre- 
cisely because the issues of chance are unknown, and 
the interest of expecting them vivid. The moral nature, 
like the physical nature, has its abysses into which 
strong souls love to plunge, risking their future as 
gamblers risk their fortune. Mademoiselle de Verneuil 
and the young marquis had obtained a revelation of 
each other’s minds as a consequence of this interview, 
and their intercourse thus took rapid strides, for the 
sympathy of their souls succeeded to that of their 
senses. Besides, the more they felt fatally drawn to 
each other, the more eager they were to study the 
secret action of their minds. The so-called Vicomte 
de Bauvan, surprised at the seriousness of the strange 
girl’s ideas, asked himself how she could possibly com- 
bine such acquired knowledge of life with so much 
youth and freshness. He thought he discovered an 
extreme desire to appear chaste in the modesty and 
reserve of her attitudes. He suspected her of playing 
a part; he questioned the nature of his own pleasure ; 
and ended by choosing to consider her a clever actress. 
He was right; Mademoiselle de Verneuil. like other 
women of the world, grew the more reserved the more 
she felt the warmth of her own feelings, assuming with 
perfect naturalness the appearance of prudery, beneath 
which such women veil their desires. They all wish to 
offer themselves as virgins on love’s altar; and if they 
are not so, the deception they seek to practise is at 
least a homage which they pay to their lovers. ‘These 
thoughts passed rapidly through the mind of the young 
man and gratified him. In fact, for both, this mutual 
examination was an advance in their intercourse, and 
the lover soon came to that phase of passion in which 





The Chouans. 139 


a man finds in the defects of his mistress a reason for 
loving her the more. 

Mademoiselle de Verneuil was thoughtful. Perhaps 
her imagination led her over a greater extent of the 
future than that of the young ém/gré, who was merely 
following one of the many impulses of his life as a man ; 
whereas Marie was considering a lifetime, thinking to 
make it beautiful, and to fill it with happiness and with 
grand and noble sentiments. Happy in such thoughts, 
more in love with her ideal than with the actual reality, 
with the future rather than with the present, she desired 
now to return upon her steps so as to better establish her 
power. In this she acted instinctively, as all women act. 
Having agreed with her soul that she would give herself 
wholly up, she wished — if we may so express it — to dis- 
pute every fragment of the gift; she longed to take back 
from the past all her words and looks and acts and 
make them more in harmony with the dignity of a 
woman beloved. Her eyes at times expressed a sort 
of terror as she thought of the interview just over, in 
which she had shown herself aggressive. But as she 
watched the face before her, instinct with power, and 
felt that a being so strong must also be generous, she 
glowed at the thought that her part in life would be 
nobler than that of most women, inasmuch as her lover 
was a man of character, a man condemned to death, 
who had come to risk his life in making war against 
the Republic. The thought of occupying such a soul 
to the exclusion of all rivals gave a new aspect to many 
matters. Between the moment, only five hours earlier, 
when she composed her face and toned her voice to 
allure the young man, and the present moment, when 
she was able to conyulse him with a look, there was all 


140 The Chouans. 


the difference to her between a dead world and a living 
one. 

In the condition of soul in which Mademoiselle de 
Verneuil now existed external life seemed to her a spe- 
cies of phantasmagoria. The carriage passed through 
villages and valleys and mounted hills which left no 
impressions on her mind. They reached Mayenne; 
the soldiers of the escort were changed; Merle spoke 
to her; she replied; they crossed the whole town and 
were again in the open country ; but the faces, houses, 
streets, landscape, men, swept past her like the figments 
ofadream., Night came, and Marie was travelling be- 
neath a diamond sky, wrapped in soft light, and yet she 
was not aware that darkness had succeeded day; that 
Mayenne was passed; that Fougeres was near; she 
knew not even where she was going. That she should 
part in a few hours from the man she had chosen, and 
who, she believed, had chosen her, was not for her a 
possibility. Love is the only passion which looks to 
neither past nor future. Occasionally her thoughts 
escaped in broken words, in phrases devoid of meaning, 
though to her lover’s ears they sounded lke promises 
of love. ‘To the two witnesses of this birth of passion 
she seemed to be rushing onward with fearful rapidity. 
Francine knew Marie as well as Madame du Gua knew 
the marquis, and their experience of the past made 
them await in silence some terrible finale. It was, 
indeed, not long before the end came to the drama which 
Mademoiselle de Verneuil had called, without perhaps 
imagining the truth of her words, a tragedy. 

When the travellers were about three miles beyond 
Mayenne they heard a horseman riding after them with 
great rapidity. When he reached the carriage he leancd 





The Chouans. 141 


towards it to look at Mademoiselle de Verneuil, who 
recognized Corentin. That offensive personage made 
her a sign of intelligence, the familiarity of which was 
deeply mortifying; then he turned away, after chilling 
her to the bone with a look full of some base meaning. 
The young émigré seemed painfully affected by this 
circumstance, which did not escape the notice of his pre- 
tended mother; but Marie softly touched him, seeming 
by her eyes to take refuge in his heart as though it were 
her only haven. His brow cleared at this proof of the 
full extent of his mistress’s attachment, coming to him 
as it were by accident. An inexplicable fear seemed to 
have overcome her coyness, and her love was visible 
for a moment without a veil. Unfortunately for both 
of them, Madame du Gua saw it all; like a miser who 
gives a feast, she seemed to count the morsels and be- 
grudge the wine. 

Absorbed in their happiness the lovers arrived, with- 
out any consciousness of the distance they had trav- 
ersed, at that part of the road which passed through 
the valley of Ernée. There Francine noticed and 
showed to her companions a number of strange forms 
which seemed to move like shadows among the trees 
and gorse that surrounded the fields. When the car- 
riage came within range of these shadows a volley of 
musketry, the balls of which whistled above their heads, 
warned the travellers that the shadows were realities. 
The escort had fallen into a trap. 

Captain Merle now keenly regretted having adopted 
Mademoiselle de Verneuil’s idea that a rapid journey 
by night would be a safe one, —an error which had led 
him to reduce his escort from Mayenne to sixty men. 
He at once, under Gérard’s orders, divided his little 


142 The Chouans. 


troop into two columns, one on each side of the road, 
which the two officers marched at a quick step among 
the gorse hedges, eager to meet the assailants, though 
ignorant of their number. The Blues beat the thick 
bushes right and left with rash intrepidity, and replied 
to the Chouans with a steady fire. 

Mademoiselle de Verneuil’s first impulse was to jump 
from the carriage and run back along the road until she 
was out of sight of the battle ; but ashamed of her fears, 
and moved by the feeling which impels us all to act 
nobly under the eyes of those we love, she presently 
stood still, endeavoring to watch the combat coolly. 

The marquis followed her, took her hand, and placed 
it on his breast. 

“T was afraid,” she said, smiling, ** but now — ” 

Just then her terrified maid cried out: ‘* Marie, take 
care!” 

But as she said the words, Francine, who was spring- 
ing from the carriage, felt herself grasped by a strong 
hand. The sudden weight of that enormous hand made 
her shriek violently ; she turned, and was instantly si- 
lenced on recognizing Marche-a-Terre. 

‘¢ Twice I owe to chance,” said the marquis to Ma- 
demoiselle de Verneuil, *‘ the revelation of the sweetest 
secrets of the heart. Thanks to Francine I now know 
you bear the gracious name of Marie, — Marie, the 
name I have invoked in my distresses, — Marie, a name 
I shall henceforth speak in joy, and never without 
sacrifice, mingling religion and love. ‘There can be no 
wrong where prayer and love go together.” 

They clasped hands. looked silently into each other’s 
eyes, and the excess of their emotion took away from 
them the power to express it. 





The Chouans. 143 


“There ’s no danger for the rest of you,’ Marche-a- 
Terre was saying roughly to Francine, giving to his 
hoarse and guttural voice a reproachful tone, and em- 
phasizing his last words in a way to stupefy the inno- 
cent peasant-girl. For the first time in her life she saw 
ferocity in that face. The moonlight seemed to heighten 
the effect of it. The savage Breton, holding his cap in 
one hand and his heavy carbine in the other, dumpy and 
thickset as a gnome, and bathed in that white light the 
shadows of which give such fantastic aspects to forms, 
seemed to belong more to a world of goblins than to 
reality. This apparition and its tone of reproach came 
upon Francine with the suddenness of a phantom. He 
turned rapidly to Madame du Gua, with whom he ex- 
changed a few eager words, which Francine, who had 
somewhat forgotten the dialect of Lower Brittany, did 
not understand. ‘The lady seemed to be giving him a 
series of orders. The short conference ended by an 
imperious gesture of the lady’s hand pointing out to the 
Chouan the lovers standing a little distance apart. 
Before obeying, Marche-a-Terre glanced at Francine 
whom he seemed to pity; he wished to speak to her, 
and the girl was aware that his silence was compulsory. 
The rough and sunburnt skin of his forehead wrinkled, 
and his eyebrows were drawn violently together. Did 
he think of disobeying a renewed order to kill Made- 
moiselle de Verneuil? ‘The contortion of his face made 
him all the more hideous to Madame du Gua, but to 
Francine the flash of his eye seemed almost gentle, for 
it taught her to feel intuitively that the violence of his 
savage nature would yield to her will as a woman, and 
that she reigned, next to God, in that rough heart. 

The lovers were interrupted in their tender interview 


144 The Chouans. 


by Madame du Gua, who ran up to Marie with a ery, 
and pulled her away as though some danger threatened 
her. Her real object however, was to enable a mem- 
ber of the royalist committee of Alencon, whom she 
saw approaching them, to speak privately to the Gars. 

‘* Beware of the girl you met at the hotel in Alencon ; 
she will betray you,” said the Chevalier de Valois, in 
the young man’s ear; and immediately he and his little 
Breton horse disappeared among the bushes from which 
he had issued, 

The firing was heavy at that moment, but the com- 
batants did not come to close quarters. 

*¢ Adjutant,” said Clef-des-Ceeurs, ‘isn’t it a sham 
attack, to capture our travellers and get a ransom?” 

‘+The devil is in it, but I believe you are right,” 
replied Gérard, darting back towards the highroad. 

Just then the Chouan fire slackened, for, in truth, 
the whole object of the skirmish was to give the cheva- 
lier an opportunity to utter his warning to the Gars. 
Merle, who saw the enemy disappearing across the 
hedges, thought best not to follow them nor to enter upon 
a fight that was uselessly dangerous. Gérard ordered 
the escort to take its former position on the road, and 
the convoy was again in motion without the loss of a 
single man. The captain offered his hand to Made- 
moiselle de Verneuil to replace her in the coach, for the 
young nobleman stood motionless, as if thunderstruck. 
Marie, amazed at his attitude, got into the carriage alone 
without accepting the politeness of the Republican ; she 
turned her head towards her lover, saw him still mo- 
tionless, and was stupefied at the sudden change which 
had evidently come over him. The young man slowly 
returned, his whole manner betraying deep disgust. 


The Chouans. 145 


‘¢Was I not right?” said Madame du Gua in his ear, 
as she led him to the coach. ‘* We have fallen into the 
hands of a creature who is traflicking for your head; 
but since she is such a fool as to have fallen in love 
with you, for heaven’s sake don’t behave like a boy ; 
pretend to love her at least till we reach La Vivetiere ; 
once there— But,” she thought to herself, seeing 
the young man take his place with a dazed air, as if 
bewildered, ‘*‘ can it be that he already loves her?” 

The coach rolled on over the sandy road. To Made- 
moiselle de Verneuil’s eyes all seemed changed. Death 
was gliding beside her love. Perhaps it was only 
fancy, but, to a woman who loves, fancy is as vivid 
as reality. Francine, who had clearly understood from 
Marche-a-Terre’s glance that Mademoiselle de Ver- 
neuil’s fate, over which she had commanded him to 
watch, was in other hands than his, looked pale and 
hageard, and could scarcely restrain her tears when her 
mistress spoke to her. To her eyes Madame du Gua’s 
female malignancy was scarcely concealed by her 
treacherous similes, and the sudden change which her 
obsequious attentions to Mademoiselle de Verneuil 
made in her manners, voice, and expression was of a 
nature to frighten a watchful observer. Mademoiselle 
de Verneuil herself shuddered instinctively, asking 
herself, ‘* Why should I fear? She is his mother.” 
Then she trembled in every limb as the thought crossed 
her mind, ‘‘Is she really his mother?” An abyss 
suddenly opened before her, and she cast a look upon 
the mother and son, which finally enlightened her. 
‘That woman loves him!” she thought. ‘* But why 
has she begnn these attentions after showing me such 
coolness? Ain I lost? or —is she afraid of me?” 

10 





146 The Chouans. 


As for the young man, he was flushed and pale by 
turns; but be kept a quiet attitude and lowered his 
eyes to conceal the emotions which agitated him. The 
graceful curve of his lips was lost in their close com- 
pression, and his skin turned yellow under the struggle 
of his stormy thoughts. Mademoiselle de Verneuil was 
unable to decide whether any love for her remained in 
his evident anger. The road, flanked by woods at this 
particular point, became darker and more gloomy, and 
the obscurity prevented the eyes of the silent travellers 
from questioning each other. The sighing of the wind, 
the rustling of the trees, the measured step of the 
escort, gave that almost solemn character to the scene 
which quickens the pulses. Mademoiselle de Verneuil 
could not long try in vain to discover the reason of this 
change. The recollection of Corentin came to her like 
a flash, and reminded her suddenly of her real destiny. 
For the first time since the morning she reflected seri- 
ously on her position. Until then she had yielded her- 
self up to the delight of loving, without a thought of 
the past or of the future. Unable to bear the agony 
of her mind, she sought, with the patience of love, to 
obtain a look from the young man’s eyes, and when she 
did so her paleness and the quiver in her face had so 
penetrating an influence over him that he wavered; but 
the softening was momentary. 

*¢ Are vou ill, mademoiselle?” he said, but his voice 
had no gentleness ; the very question, the look, the ges- 
ture, all served to convince her that the events of this 
day belonged to a mirage of the soul which was fast 
disappearing like mists before the wind. 

“Am Till?” she replied, with a forced laugh. ‘1 


was going to ask you the same question.” 


The Chouans. 147 


‘¢T supposed you understood each other,” remarked 
Madame du Gua with specious kindliness. 

Neither the young man nor Mademoiselle de Verneuil 
replied. The girl, doubly insulted, was angered at 
feeling her powerful beauty powerless. She knew she 
could discover the cause of the present situation the 
moment she chose to do so; but, for the first time, 
perhaps, a woman recoiled before a secret. Human 
life is sadly fertile in situations where, as a result of 
either too much meditation or of some catastrophe, 
our thoughts seem to hold to nothing; they have no 
substance, no point of departure, and the present 
has no hooks by which to hold to the past or fasten 
on the future. This was Mademoiselle de Verneuil’s 
condition at the present moment. Leaning back in 
the carriage, she sat there like an uprooted shrub. 
Silent and suffering, she looked at no one, wrapped 
herself in her grief, and buried herself so completely 
in the unseen world, the refuge of the miserable, 
that she saw nothing around her. Crows crossed the 
road in the air above them cawing, but although, like 
all strong hearts, hers had a superstitious corner, she 
paid no attention to the omen. The party travelled on 
in silence. ‘* Already parted?’’? Mademoiselle de Ver- 
neuil was saying to herself. ‘* Yet no one about us has 
uttered one word. Could it be Corentin? It is not his 
interest to speak. Who can have come to this spot 
and accused me? Just loved, and already abandoned ! 
I sow attraction, and I reap contempt. Is it my per- 
petual fate to see happiness and ever lose it?” Pangs 
hitherto unknown to her wrung her heart, for she now 
loved truly and for the first time. Yet she had not so 
wholly delivered herself to her lover that she could not 


148 The Chouans. 


take refuge from her pain in the natural pride and 
dignity of a young and beautiful woman. The secret 
of her love—a secret often kept by women under 
torture itself—had not escaped her lips. Presently 
she rose from her reclining attitude, ashamed that she 
had shown her passion by her silent sufferings; she 
shook her head with a light-hearted action, and showed 
a face, or rather a mask, that was gay and smiling; 
then she raised her voice to disguise the quiver of it. 

‘* Where are we?” she said to Captain Merle, who 
kept himself at a certain distance from the carriage. 

** About six miles from Fougéres, mademoiselle.” 

‘* We shall soon be there, shall we not?” she went 
on, to encourage a conversation in which she might 
show some preference for the young captain. 

‘* A Breton mile,” said Merle much delighted, ‘‘ has 
the disadvantage of never ending; when you are at the 
top of one hill you see a valley and another hill. When 
you reach the summit of the slope we are now ascend- 
ing you will see the plateau of Mont Pelerine in the 
distance. Let us hope the Chouans won’t take their 
revenge there. Now, in going up hill and going down 
hill one does n’t make much headway. From La Peéler- 
ine you will still see —” 

The young émigré made a movement at the name 
which Marie alone noticed. 

‘** What is La Pelerine?” she asked hastily, inter- 
rupting the captain’s description of Breton topography. 

“Tt is the summit of a mountain,” said Merle, 
‘¢which gives its name to the Maine valley through 
which we shall presently pass. It separates this valley 
from that of Couésnon, at the end of which is the town 
of Fougeres, the chief town in Brittany. We had a 


The Chouans. 149 


fight there last Vendémiaire with the Gars and _ his 
brigands. We were escorting Breton conscripts, who 
meant to kill us sooner than leave their own land; but 
Hulot is a rough Christian, and he gave them —” 

‘¢ Did you see the Gars?” she asked. “ What sort 
of man is he?” 

Her keen, malicious eyes never left the so-called 
vicomte’s face. 

‘¢ Well, mademoiselle,” replied Merle, nettled at be- 
ing always interrupted, “he is so like citizen du Gua, 
that if your friend did not wear the uniform of the 
Ecole Polytechnique I could swear it was he.” 

Mademoiselle de Verneuil looked fixedly at the cold, 
impassible young man who had scorned her, but she 
saw nothing in him that betrayed the slightest feeling 
of alarm. She warned him by a bitter smile that she 
had now discovered the secret so treacherously kept ; 
then in a jesting voice, her nostrils dilating with plea- 
sure, and her head so turned that she could watch the 
young man and yet see Merle, she said to the Repub- 
lican: “ That new leader gives a great deal of anxiety 
to the First Consul. He is very daring, they say ; but 
he has the weakness of rushing headlong into adven- 
tures, especially with women.” 

‘We are counting on that to get even with him,” said 
the captain. ‘‘If we catch him for only an hour we 
shall put a bullet in his head. He’ll do the same to us 
if he meets us, so par pari —” ' 

“Oh!” said the émigré, “ we have nothing to fear. 
Your soldiers cannot go as far as La Pelerine, they 
are tired, and, if you consent, we can all rest a short 
distance from here. My mother stops at La Viveticere, 
the road to which turns off a few rods farther on. 


150 The Chouans. 


These ladies might like to stop there too; they must be 
tired with their long drive from Alencon without rest- 
ing; and as mademoiselle,” he added, with forced 
politeness, “has had the generosity to give safety as 
well as pleasure to our journey, perhaps she will deign 
to accept a supper from my mother; and I think, cap- 
tain,” he added, addressing Merle, ‘‘ the times are not 
so bad but what we can find a barrel of cider for your 
men. The Gars can’t have taken all, at least my mother 
thinks not —” 

‘* Your mother?” said Mademoiselle de Verneuil, 
interrupting him in a tone of irony, and making no 
reply to his invitation. 

‘¢ Does my age seem more improbable to you this 
evening, mademmoiselle?” said Madame du Gua. ‘* Un- 
fortunately I was married very young, and my son was 
born when I was fifteen.” 

‘¢ Are you not mistaken, madame ?— when you were 
thirty, perhaps.” 

Madame du Gua turned livid as she swallowed the 
sarcasm. She would have liked to revenge herself on 
the spot, but was forced to smile, for she was deter- 
mined at any cost, even that of insult, to discover the 
nature of the feelings that actuated the young girl; she 
therefore pretended not to have understood her. 

‘*The Chouans have never had a more cruel leader 
than the Gars, if we are to believe the stories about 
him,” she said, addressing herself vaguely to both Fran- 
cine and her mistress. 

“Oh, as for cruel, I don’t believe that,” said Made- 
moiselle de Verneuil; “he knows how to lie, but he 
seems rather credulous himself. The leader of a party 
ought not to be the plaything of others.” 


The Chouans. 151 


“Do you know him?” asked the émigré, quietly. 

‘¢No,” she replied, with a disdainful glance, ‘+ but I 
thought I did.” 

‘¢ Oh, mademoiselle, he’s a malin, yes a malin,” said 
Captain Merle, shaking his head and giving with an 
expressive gesture the peculiar meaning to the word 
which it had in those days but has since lost. ‘* Those 
old families do sometimes send out vigorous shoots. 
He has just returned from a country where, they say, 
the ci-devunts didn’t find life too easy, and men ripen 
like medlars in the straw. If that fellow is really clever 
he can lead us a pretty dance. He has already formed 
companies of light infantry who oppose our troops and 
neutralize the efforts of the government. If we burn 
a royalist village he burns two of ours. He can hold 
an immense tract of country and force us to spread out 
our men at the very moment when we want them on one 
spot. Oh, he knows what he is about.” 

‘¢ He is cutting his country’s throat,” said Gérard in 
a loud voice, interrupting the captain. 

“Then,” said the emigré,” ‘+ if his death would de- 
liver the nation, why don’t you catch him and shoot 
him?” 

As he spoke he tried to look into the depths of Made- 
moiselle de Verneuil’s soul, and one of those voiceless 
scenes the dramatic vividness and fleeting sagacity of 
which cannot be reproduced in language passed be- 
tween them ina flash. Danger is always interesting. 
The worst criminal threatened with death excites pity. 
Though Mademoiselle de Verneuil was now certain that 
the lover who had cast her off was this very leader of 
the Chouans, she was not ready to verify her suspicions 
by giving him up; she had quite another curiosity to 


153 The Chouans, 


satisfy. She preferred to doubt or to believe as her 
passion led her, and she now began deliberately to play 
with peril. Her eyes, full of scornful meaning, bade 
the young chief notice the soldiers of the escort; by 
thus presenting to his mind triumphantly an image of 
his danger she made him feel that his life depended on 
a word from her, and her lips seemed to quiver on the 
verge of pronouncing it. Like an American Indian, she 
watched every muscle of the face of her enemy, tied, as 
it were, to the stake, while she brandished her toma- 
hawk gracefully, enjoying a revenge that was still inno- 
cent, and torturing like a mistress who still loves. 

‘¢If I had a son like yours, madame,” she said to 
Madame du Gua, who was visibly frightened, “I should 
wear mourning from the day when I had yielded him 
to danger; I should know no peace of mind.” 

No answer was made to this speech. She turned her 
head repeatedly to the escort and then suddenly to Ma- 
dame du Gua, without detecting the slightest secret sig- 
nal between the lady and the Gars which might have 
confirmed her suspicions on the nature of their inti- 
macy, which she longed to doubt. The young chief 
calinly smiled, and bore without flinching the scrutiny 
she forced him to undergo; his attitude and the expres- 
sion of his face were those of a man indifferent to dan- 
ger; he even seemed to say at times: ‘‘ This is your 
chance to avenge your wounded vanity —take it! I 
have no desire to lessen my contempt for you.” 

Mademoiselle de Verneuil began to study the young 
man from the vantage-ground of her position with 
coolness and dignity; at the bottom of her heart she 
admired his courage and tranquillity. Happy in dis- 
covering that the man she loved bore an ancient title 


The Chouans. 158 


(the distinctions of which please every woman), she 
also found pleasure in meeting him in their present 
situation, where, as champion of a cause ennobled by 
misfortune, he was fighting with all the faculties of a 
strong soul against a Republic that was constantly vic- 
torious. She rejoiced to see him brought face to face 
with danger, and still displaying the courage and 
bravery so powerful on a woman’s heart; again and 
again she put him to the test, obeying perhaps the 
instinct which induces a woman to play with her vic- 
tim as a cat plays with a mouse. 

“By virtue of what law do you put the Chouans to 
death?” she said to Merle. 

** That of the 14th of last Fructidor, which outlaws 
the insurgent departments and proclaims martial law,” 
replied the Republican. 

‘¢ May Task why I have the honor to attract your 
eyes?” she said presently to the young chief, who was 
attentively watching her. 

‘* Because of a feeling which a man of honor cannot 
express to any woman, no inatter who she is,” replied 
the Marquis de Montauran, in a low voice, bending 
down to her. ‘* We live in times,” he said aloud, 
‘*when women do the work of the executioner and 
wield the axe with even better effect.” 

She looked at de Montauran fixedly; then, delighted 
to be attacked by the man whose life she held in her 
hands, she said in a low voice, smiling softly: ‘* Your 
head is a very poor one; the executioner does not want 
it; Ishall keep it myself.” 

The marquis looked at the inexplicable girl, whose 
love had overcome all, even insult, and who now 
avenged herself by forgiving that which women are 


154 The Chouans. 


said never to forgive. His eyes grew less stern, less 
cold; a look of sadness came upon his face. His love 
was stronger than he suspected. Mademoiselle de 
Verneuil, satisfied with these faint signs of a desired 
reconciliation, glanced at him tenderly, with a smile 
that was like a kiss; then she leaned back once more 
in the carriage, determined not to risk the future of this 
happy drama, believing she had assured it with her 
smile. She was so beautiful! She knew so well how 
to conquer all obstacles to love! She was so accus- 
tomed to take all risks and push on at all hazards! 
She loved the unexpected, and the tumults of life — 
why should she fear? 

Before long the carriage, under the young chief's di- 
rections, left the highway and took a road cut between 
banks planted with apple-trees, more like a ditch than 
a roadway, which led to La Vivetitre. The carriage 
now advanced rapidly, leaving the escort to follow 
slowly towards the manor-house, the gray roois of which 
appeared and disappeared among the trees. Some of 
the men lingered on the way to knock the stilf clay of 
the road-bed from their shoes. 

‘This is devilishly like the road to Paradise,” re- 
marked Beau-Pied. 

Thanks to the impatience of the postilion, Mademoi- 
selle de Verneuil soon saw the chateau of La Vivetiere. 
This house, standing at the end of a sort of promontory, 
was protected and surrounded by two deep lakelets, and 
could be reached only by a narrow causeway. That 
part of the little peninsula on which the house and 
gardens were placed was still further protected by a 
moat filled with water from the two lakes which it con- 
nected. The house really stood on an island that was 


The Chouans. oo 


well-nigh impregnable,—an invaluable retreat for a 
chieftain, who could be surprised there only by 
treachery. 

Mademoiselle de Verneuil put her head out of the 
carriage as she heard the rusty hinges of the great 
gates open to give entrance to an arched portal which 
had been much injured during the late war. The 
gloomy colors of the scene which met her eyes almost 
extinguished the thoughts of love and coquetry in which 
she had been indulging. The carriage entered a large 
courtyard that was nearly square, bordered on each 
side by the steep banks of the lakelets. Those sterile 
shores, washed by the water, which was covered with 
large green patches, had no other ornament than aquatic 
trees devoid of foliage, the twisted trunks and hoary 
heads of which, rising from the reeds and rushes, gave 
them a certain grotesque likeness to gigantic marmo- 
sets. These ugly growths seemed to waken and talk 
to each other when the frogs deserted them with much 
croaking, and the water-fowl, startled by the sound of 
the wheels, flew low upon the surface of the pools, 
The courtyard, full of rank and seeded grasses, reeds, 
and shrubs, either dwarf or parasite, excluded all im- 
pression of order or of splendor. The house appeared 
to have been long abandoned. ‘The roof seemed to 
bend beneath the weight of the various vegetations 
which grew upon it. The walls, though built of the 
smooth, slaty stone which abounds in that region, 
showed many rifts and chinks where ivy had fastened 
its rootlets. Two main buildings, joined at the angle 
by a tall tower which faced the lake, formed the whole 
of the chateau, the doors and swinging, rotten shutters, 
rusty balustrades, and broken windows of which seemed 


156 The Chouans. 


ready to fall at the first tempest. The north wind 
whistled through these ruins, to which the moon, with 
her indefinite light, gave the character and outline of a 
great spectre. But the colors of those gray-blue gran- 
ites, mingling with the black and tawny schists, must 
have been seen in order to understand how vividly a 
spectral image was suggested by the empty and gloomy 
carcass of the building. Its disjointed stones and 
paneless windows, the battered tower and broken roofs 
gave it the aspect of a skeleton; the birds of prey which 
flew from it, shrieking, added another feature to this 
vague resemblance. <A few tall pine-trees standing 
behind the house waved their dark foliage above the 
roof, and several yews cut into formal shapes at the 
angles of the building, festooned it gloomily like 
the ornaments on a hearse. The style of the doors, 
the coarseness of the decorations, the want of harmony 
in the architecture, were all characteristic of the feudal 
manors of which Brittany was proud; perhaps justly 
proud, for they maintained upon that Gaelic ground 
a species of monumental history of the nebulous pe- 
riod which preceded the establishment of the French 
monarchy. 

Mademoiselle de Verneuil, to whose imagination the 
word “chateau” brought none but its conventional 
ideas, was affected by the funereal aspect of the scene. 
She sprang from the carriage and stood apart gazing 
at it in terror, and debating within herself what action 
she ought to take. Francine heard Madame du Gua 
give a sigh of relief as she felt herself in safety beyond 
reach of the Blues; an exclamation escaped her when 
the gates were closed, and she saw the carriage and its 
occupants within the walls of this natural fortress. 


The Chouans. 157 


The Marquis de Montauran turned hastily to Made- 
moiselle de Verneuil, divining the thoughts that crowded 
on her mind. 

‘This chateau,” he said, rather sadly, ‘* was ruined 
by the war, just as my plans for our happiness have 
been ruined by you.” 

‘¢ How ruined?” she asked in surprise. 

“ Are you indeed ‘beautiful, brilliant, and of noble 
birth ’?” he asked ironically, repeating the words she 
had herself used in their former conversation. 

‘* Who has told you to the contrary?” 

‘¢Friends, in whom I put faith; who care for my 
safety and are on the watch against treachery.” 

“Treachery!” she exclaimed, in a sarcastic tone. 
“ Have you forgotten Hulot and Alencon already? 
You have no memory,— a dangerous defect in the leader 
of a party. But if friends,” she added with increased 
sarcasm, “are so all-powerful in your heart, keep your 
friends. Nothing is comparable to the joys of friendship. 
Adieu; neither I nor the soldiers of the Republic will 
stop here.” 

She turned towards the gateway with a look of 
wounded pride and scorn, and her motions as she did 
so displayed a dignity and also a despair which changed 
in an instant the thoughts of the young man; he felt that 
the cost of relinquishing his desires was too great, and 
he gave himself up deliberately to imprudence and 
credulity. He loved; and the lovers had no desire 
now to quarrel with each other. 

*¢ Say but one word and I will believe you,” he said, 
in a supplicating voice. 

‘¢Qne word?” she answered, closing her lips tightly, 
‘¢not a single word; not even a gesture.” 





158 The Chouans. 


*¢ At least, be angry with me,” he entreated, trying 
to take the hand she withheld from him, — “ that is, if 
you dare to be angry with the leader of the rebels, who 
is now as sad and distrustful as he was lately happy and 
confiding.” 

Marie gave him a look that was far from angry, and 
he added: ‘‘ You have my secret, but I have not 
yours.” 

The alabaster brow appeared to darken at these 
words; she cast a look of annoyance on the young 
chieftain, and answered, hastily: ** Tell you my secret? 
Never!” 

In love every word, every glance has the eloquence 
of the moment; but on this occasion Mademoiselle de 
Verneuil’s exclamation revealed nothing, and, clever as 
Montauran might be, its secret was impenetrable to 
him, though the tones of her voice betrayed some 
extraordinary and unusual emotion which piqued his 
curiosity. 

‘*You have a singular way of dispelling suspicion,” 
he said. 

** Do you still suspect me?” she replied, looking 
him in the eye, as if to say, ‘* What rights have you 
over me?” 

‘¢ Mademoiselle,” said the young man, in a voice 
that was submissive and yet firm, ‘* the authority you 
exercise over Republican troops, this escort —” 

‘¢Ah, that reminds me! My escort and I,” she 
asked, in a slightly satirical tone, ** your protectors, 
in short, — will they be safe here?” 

‘* Yes, on the word of a gentleman. Whoever you 
be, you and your party have nothing to fear in my 
house.” 


The Chouans. 159 


The promise was made with so loyal and generous 
an air and manner that Mademoiselle de Verneuil felt 
absolutely secure as to the safety of the Republican 
soldiers. She was about to speak when Madame du 
Gua’s approach silenced her. That lady had either 
overheard or guessed part of their conversation, and 
was filled with anxiety at no longer perceiving any 
signs of animosity between them. As soon as the 
marquis caught sight of her, he offered his hand to 
Mademoiselle de Verneuil and led her hastily towards 
the house, as if to escape an undesired companion. 

‘*T am in their way,” thought Madame du Gna, 
remaining where she was. She watched the lovers 
walking slowly towards the portico, where they stopped, 
as if satisfied to have placed some distance between 
themselves and her. ‘* Yes, yes, I am in their way,” 
she repeated, speaking to herself; ‘* but before long 
that creature will not be in mine; the lake, God will- 
ing, shali have her. I’li help him keep his word as a 
gentleman; once under the water, she has nothing to 
fear, — what can be safer than that?” 

She was looking fixedly at the still mirror of the 
little lake to the right when she suddenly heard a rust- 
ling among the rushes, and saw in the moonlight the 
face of Marche-a-Terre rising behind the gnarled trunk 
of an old willow. None but those who knew the 
Chouan well could have distinguished him from the 
tangle of branches of which he seemed a part. Ma- 
dame du Gua looked about her with some distrust; she 
saw the postilion leading his horses to a stable in the 
wing of the chateau which was opposite to the bank 
where Marche-a-Terre was hiding; Francine, with her 
back to her, was going towards the two lovers, who at 


160 The Chouans. 


that moment had forgotten the whole earth. Madame 
du Gua, with a finger on her lip to demand silence, 
walked towards the Chouan, who guessed rather than 
heard her question, ‘* How many of you are here?” 

** Highty-seven.” 

‘*'They are sixty-five ; I counted them.” 

*¢ Good,” said the savage, with sullen satisfaction. 

Attentive to all Francine’s movements, the Chouan 
disappeared behind the willow, as he saw her turn to 
look for the enemy over whom she was keeping an 
instinctive watch. 

Six or eight persons, attracted by the noise of the 
carriage-wheels, came out on the portico, shouting : *¢ It 
is the Gars! it is he; here he is!” On this several 
other men ran out, and their coming interrupted the 
lovers. The Marquis de Montauran went hastily up to 
them, making an imperative gesture for silence, and 
pointing to the farther end of the causeway, where 
the Republican escort was just appearing. At the 
sight of the well-known blue uniforms with red facings, 
and the glittering bayonets, the amazed conspirators 
called out hastily, ** You have surely not betrayed 
wk” 

‘If I had, I should not warn you,” said the marquis, 
smiling bitterly. “Those Blues,” he added, after a 
pause, “are the escort of this young lady, whose gener- 
osity has delivered us, almost miraculously, from a 
danger we were in at Alencon. TI will tell you about 
it later. Mademoiselle and her escort are here in 
safety, on my word as a gentleman, and we must all 
receive them as friends.” 

Madaine du Gua and Francine were now on_ the 
portico; the marguis offered his hand to Mademoiselle 


The Chouans. 161 


de Verneuil, the group of gentlemen parted in two 
lines to allow them to pass. endeavoring, as they did 
so, to catch sight of the young lady’s features; for 
Madame du Gua. who was following behind, excited 
their curiosity by secret signs. 

Mademoiselle de Verneuil saw, with surprise, that a 
large table was set in the first hall, for about twenty 
guests. The dining-room opened into a vast salon, where 
the whole party were presently assembled. These rooms 
were in keeping with the dilapidated appearance of the 
outside of the house. The walnut panels, polished by 
age, but rough and coarse in design and badly exe- 
cuted, were loose in their places and ready to fall. 
Their dingy color added to the gloom of these apart- 
ments, which were barren of curtains and mirrors; a 
few venerable bits of furniture in the last stages of 
decay alone remained, and harmonized with the general 
destruction. Marie noticed maps and plans stretched 
out upon long tables, and in the corners of the room 
a quantity of weapons and stacked carbines. These 
things bore witness, thougb she did not know it, to 
an important conference between the leaders of the 
Vendéans and those of the Chouans. 

The marquis led Mademoiselle de Verneuil to a large 
and worm-eaten armchair placed beside the fireplace ; 
Francine followed and stood behind her mistress, lean- 
ing on the back of that ancient bit of furniture. 

‘© You will allow me for a moment to play the part 
of master of the house,” he said Jeaving the two women 
and mingling with the groups of his other guests. 

Francine saw the gentlemen hasten, after a few words 
from Montauran, to hide their weapons, maps, and 
Whatever else might arouse the suspicions of the Re- 

11 


162 The Chouans. 


publican officers. Some took off their broad leather 
belts containing pistols and hunting-knives. ‘The mar- 
quis requested them to show the utmost prudence, and 
went himself to see to the reception of the troublesome 
guests whom fate had bestowed upon him, 
Mademoiselle de Verneuil, who had raised her feet to 
the fire and was now warming them. did not turn her 
head as Montauran left the room, thus disappointing 
those present, who were anxious to see her. Francine 
alone saw the change produced on the company by the 
departure of the young chief. The gentlemen gathered 
hastily round Madame du Gua, and during a conversa- 
tion carried on in an undertone between them. they all 
turned several times to look curiously at the stranger. 
“You know Montauran,”? Madame du Gua said to 
them; ‘he has fallen in love with that worthless girl, 
and, as you can easily understand, he thinks all my 
warnings selfish. Our friends in Paris. Messieurs de 
Valois and d’Eserignon. have warned him of a trap set 
for him by throwing some such creature at his head; 
but in spite of this he allows himself to be fooled by the 
first woman he meets, —a girl who, if my information is 
correct, has stolen a great name only to disgrace it.” 
The speaker, in whom our readers have already 
recognized the lady who instigated the attack on the 
‘** turgotine,’ may be allowed to keep the name which 
she used to escape the dangers that threatened her in 
Alengon, The publication of her real name would only 
mortify a noble family already deeply afllicted at the 
misconduct of this woman; whose history, by the bye, 





has already been given on another scene. 
The curiosity manifested by the company of men 
soon becaine impertinent and almost hostile. <A few 


The Chouans, 163 


harsh words reached Francine’s ear. and after a word 
said to her mistress the girl retreated into the embrasure 
of a window. Marie rose, turned towards the insolent 
group, and gave them a look full of dignity and even 
disdain. Her beauty, the elegance of her manners, and 
her pride changed the behavior of her enemies, and 
won her the flattering murmur which escaped their lips. 
Two or three men, whose outward appearance seemed 
to denote the habits of polite society and the gallantry 
acquired in courts, caine towards her; but her propriety 
of demeanor forced them to respect her, and none dared 
speak to her; so that, instead of being herself ar. 
ragned by the company, 1t was she who appeared to 
judge of them. These chiefs of a war undertaken for 
God and the king bore very little resemblance to the 
portraits her fancy had drawn of them. The struggle, 
really great in itself, shrank to mean proportions as she 
observed these provincial noblemen, all, with one or 
two vigorous exceptions, devoid of significance and vi- 
rility. Having made to herself a poem of such heroes, 
Marie suddenly awakened to the truth. Their faces 
expressed to her eyes more a love of scheming than a 
love of glory; self-interest had evidently put arms into 
their hands. Still, 1t must be said that these men did 
become heroic when brought into action. The loss of 
her lusions made Mademoiselle de Verneuil unjust, and 
prevented her from recognizing the real devotion which 
rendered several of these men remarkable. It is true 
that most of those now present were commonplace. A 
few original and marked faces appeared among them, 
but even these were belittled by the artificiality and the 
etiquette of aristocracy. If Marie generously granted 
intellect and perception to the latter, she also discerned 


164 The Chouans. 


in them a total absence of the simplicity, the grandeur, 
to which she had been accustomed among the trium- 
phant men of the Republic. This nocturnal assemblage 
in the old ruined castle made her smile; the scene 
seemed symbolic of the monarchy, But the thought 
came to her with delight that the marquis at least 
played a noble part among these men, whose only re- 
maining merit in her eyes was devotion to a lost cause. 
She pictured her lover’s face upon the background of 
this company, rejoicing to see it stand forth among 
those paltry and puny figures who were but the instru- 
ments of his great designs. 

The footsteps of the marquis were heard in the ad- 
joining room Instantly the company separated into 
little groups and the whisperings ceased. Like school- 
boys who have plotted mischief in the master’s absence, 
they hurriedly became silent and orderly. Montauran 
entered. Marie had the happiness of admiring him 
among his fellows, of whom he was the youngest, the 
handsomest, and the chief. Like a king in his court, he 
went from group to group, distributing looks and nods 
and words of encouragement or warning, with pressure 
of the hands and smiles; doing his duty as leader of a 
party with a grace and self-possession hardly to be ex- 
pected in the young man whom Marie had so lately 
accused of heedlessness. 

The presence of the marqnis put an end to the open 
curiosity bestowed on Mademoiselle de Verreuil, but 
Madame du Gua’s scandalous suggestions bore fruit. 
The Baron du Guénic, familiarly called * lIntimé,” 
who by rank and name had the best right among those 
present to treat Montauran familiarly, took the young 
leader by the arm and led him apart. 


The Chouans. 105 


‘¢My dear marquis,” he said; ‘‘ we are much dis- 
turbed at seeing you on the point of committing an 
amazing folly.” 

‘¢ What do you mean by that?” 

‘Do you know where that girl comes from, who she 
is, and what her schemes about you are?” 

‘Don’t trouble yourself, my dear Intimé; between 
you and me my fancy for her will be over to-morrow.” 

‘*Yes; but suppose that creature betrays you to- 
night? ” 

‘¢J ll answer that when you tell me why she has not 
done it already,” said Montauran, assuming with a 
laugh an air of conceit. ‘‘ My dear fellow, look at that 
charming girl, watch her manners, and dare to tell me 
she is not a woman of distinction. If she gave you a 
few favorable looks would n’t you feel at the bottom of 
your soul a respect for her? <A certain lady has pre- 
judiced you. I will tell you this: if she were the lost 
creature our friends are trying to make her out, I 
would, after what she and I have said to each other, 
kill her myself.” 

‘¢Do you suppose,” said Madame du Gua, joining 
them, “ that Fouche is fool enough to send you a com- 
mon prostitute out of the streets? He has provided 
seductions according to your deserts. You may choose 
to be blind, but your friends are keeping their eyes 
open to protect you.” 

‘* Madame,” replied the Gars, his eyes flashing with 
anger, ‘‘ be warned; take no steps against that lady, 
nor against her escort; if you do, nothing shall save 
you from my vengeance. I choose that Mademoi- 
selle de Verneuil be treated with the utmost respect, 
and as a lady belonging to my family. We are, I 
believe, related to the de Verneuils.” 


166 The Chouans. 


The opposition the marquis was made to feel pro- 
duced the usual effect of such obstacles on all young 
men. ‘Though he had, apparently, treated Mademoi- 
selle de Verneuil rather lightly, and left it to be sup- 
posed that his passion for her was a mere caprice, he 
now, from a feeling of pride, made immense strides in 
his relation to her. By openly protecting her, his honor 
became concerned in compelling respect to her person ; 
and he went from group to group assuring his friends, 
in the tone of a man whom it was dangerous to contra- 
dict, that the lady was really Mademoiselle de Verneuil. 
The doubts and gossip ceased at once. As soon as 
Montauran felt that harmony was restored and anxiety 
allayed, he returned to his mistress eagerly, saying 
in a low voice: — 

‘¢'Those mischievous people have robbed me of an 
hour’s happiness.” 

‘‘T am glad you have come back to me,” she 
said, smiling. ‘*I warn you that I am inquisitive; 
therefore you must not get tired of my questions. 
Tell me, in the first place, who is that worthy in a 
green cloth jacket?” 

‘¢ That is the famous Major Brigaut, a man from the 
Marais, a comrade of the late Mercier, called La 
Vendée.” 

‘* And that fat priest with the red face to whom he 
is talking at this moment about me?” she went on. 

“Do you want to know what they are saying?” 

“Do I want to know it?) What a useless question!” 

‘¢ But I could not tell it without offending you.” 

“Tf you allow me to be insulted in your house with- 
out avenging me, marquis, adieu!” she said. ‘+I will 
not stay another moment. I have some qualins already 


The Chouans. 167 


about deceiving those poor Republicans, loyal and con- 
fiding as they are!” 

She made a few hasty steps; the marquis followed 
her. 

‘* Dear Marie, listen to me. On my honor, I have 
silenced their evil speaking, without knowing whether it 
was false or true. But, placed as I am, if friends 
whom we have in all the ministries in Paris warn me 
to beware of every woman I meet, and assure me that 
Fouché has employed against me a Judith of the streets, 
it is not unnatural that my best friends here should 
think you too beautiful to be an honest woman.” - 

As he spoke the marquis plunged a glance into 
Mademoiselle de Verneuil’s eyes. She colored, and was 
unable to retrain her tears. 

“JT deserve tnese insults,” she said. “I wish you 
really thought me that despicable creature and _ still 
loved me; then, indeed, I could no longer doubt you. 
T believed in you when you were deceiving me, and you 
will not believe me now when Iam true. Let us make 
an end of this, monsieur,” she said, frowning, but turn- 
ing pale as death, — ‘‘ adieu!” 

She rushed towards the dining-room with a movement 
of despair. 

“Marie, my life is yours,” said the young marquis in 
her ear. 

She stopped short and looked at him. 

‘¢No, no,” she said, ‘* I will be generous. Farewell. 
In coming with you here I did not think of my past nor 
of your future — 1 was beside myself.” 

‘* You cannot mean that you will leave me now when 
I offer you my life?” 

‘* You offer it in a moment of passion — of desire.” 


168 The Chouans. 


“T offer it without regret, and forever,” he replied. 

She returned to the room they had left. Hiding his 
emotions the marquis continued the conversation. 

‘* That fat priest whose name you asked is the Abbé 
Gudin, a Jesuit, obstinate enough — perhaps I ought to 
say devoted enough, —to remain in France in spite of 
the decree of 1795, which banished his order. He is 
the firebrand of the war in these regions and a propa- 
gandist of the religious association called the Sacré- 
Coeur. ‘Trained to use religion as an instrument, he 
persuades his followers that if they are killed they will 
be brought to life again, and he knows how to rouse 
their fanaticism by shrewd sermons. You see, it is 
necessary to work upon every man’s selfish interests to 
attain a great end. That is the secret of all political 
success.” 

‘¢And that vigorous, muscular old man, with the 
repulsive face, who is he? I mean the one in the 
ragged gown of a barrister.” 

‘¢ Barrister! he aspires to be considered a brigadier- 
general. Did you never hear of de Longuy ?” 

**Ts that he!” exclaimed Mademoiselle de Verneuil, 
horrified. ** You employ such men as that?” 

**TTush! he ll hear you. Do you sce that other man 
in malignant conversation with Madame du Gua?” 

‘* The one in black who looks like a judge?” 

‘¢' That is one of our go-betweens, La Billardicre, son 
of a councillor to the Breton Parliament, whose real 
name is something like Flamet; he is in close corre- 
spondence with the princes.” 

“ And his neighbor? the one who is just putting up 
his white clay pipe, and uses all the fingers of his right 
hand to snap the box, like a countryman.” 


The Chouans. 169 


‘¢ By Jove, you are right; he was game-keeper to the 
deceased husband of that lady, and now commands one 
of the companies I send against the Republican militia. 
He and Marche-a-Terre are the two most conscientious 
vassals the king has here.” 

‘* But she — who is she?” 

‘* Charette’s last mistress,” replied the marquis. 
‘¢ She wields great influence over all these people.” 

‘¢Ts she faithful to his memory?” 

For all answer the marquis gave a dubious smile. 

*¢ Do you think well of her?” 

*¢ You are very inquisitive.” 

‘¢ She is my enemy because she can no longer be my 
rival,” said Mademoiselle de Verneuil, laughing. ‘I 
forgive her her past errors if she forgives mine. Who 
is that oflicer with the long moustache?” 

“ Permit me not to name him; he wants to get rid of 
the First Consul by assassination. Whether he suce- 
ceeds or not you will hear of him. He is certain to 
become famous.” 

‘¢ And you have come here to command such men as 
these!” she exclaimed in horror. ‘* Are they the 
king’s defenders? Where are the gentlemen and the 
great lords?” 

‘* Where?” said the marquis, coolly, ‘‘ they are in all 
the courts of Europe. Who else should win over kings 
and cabinets and armies to serve the Bourbon cause and 
hurl them at that Republic which threatens monarchies 
and social order with death and destruction ?” 

** Ah!” she said, with generous emotion, ** be to me 
henceforth the source from which I draw the ideas I 
must still acquire about your cause —I consent. But 
let me still remember that you are the only noble who 


’ 


170 The Chouans. 


does his duty in fighting France with Frenchmen, with- 
out the help of foreigners. J ama woman; I feel that 
if my child struck me in anger I could forgive him ; but 
if he saw me beaten by a stranger and consented to it, 
I should regard him as a monster.” 

** You shall remain a Republican,” said the marquis, 
in the ardor produced by the generous words which 
confirmed his hopes. 

** Republican! no, Iam that no longer. I could not 
now respect you if you submitted to the First Consul,” 
she replied. ‘* But neither do I like to see you at the 
head of men who are pillaging a corner of France, in- 
stead of making war against the whole Republic. For 
whom are you fighting? What do you expect of a king 
restored to his throne by your efforts? A woman did 
that great thing once, and the liberated king allowed 
her to be burned. Such men are the anointed of the 
Lord, and there is danger in meddling with sacred 
things. -Let God take care of his own, and place, dis- 
place, and replace them on their purple seats. But if 
you have counted the cost, and seen the poor return 
that will come to you, you are tenfold greater in my 
eyes than I thought you —” 

‘¢ Ah! you are bewitching. Don’t attempt to indoc- 
trinate my followers, or I shall be left without a man.” 

‘*If you would let me convert you, only you,” she 
said, ‘‘we might live happily a thousand leagues away 
from all this.” 

‘¢These men whom you seem to despise,” said the 
marquis, in a graver tone, ** will know how to die when 
the strugele comes, and all their misdeeds will be for- 
gotten. Besides, if my efforts are crowned with some 
success, the laurel leaves of victory will hide all.” 


The Chouans., LE 


*¢T see no one but you who is risking anything.” 

‘¢ You are mistaken; I am not the only one,” he re- 
plied, with true modesty. ‘+See, over there, the new 
leaders from La Vendée. The first, whom you must 
have heard of as ‘ Le Grand Jacques,’ is the Comte de 
Fontaine; the other is La Billardiere, whom I men- 
tioned to you just now.” 

‘* Wave you forgotten Quiberon, where La Billardiére 
played so equivocal a part?” she said, struck by a 
sudden recollection. 

‘*La Billarditre took a great deal upon himself. 
Serving princes is far from lying on a bed of roses.” 

‘¢ Ah! you make me shudder!” cried Marie. ‘* Mar- 
quis,” she continued, in a tone which seemed to indicate 
some mysterious personal reticence, ‘‘a single instant 
suffices to destroy illusions and to betray secrets on 
which the life and happiness of many may depend —” 
she stopped, as though she feared she had said too 
much; then she added, in another tone, ‘‘ I wish I could 
be sure that those Republican soldiers were in safety.” 

*¢ JT will be prudent,” he said, smiling to disguise his 
emotion ; ** but say no more about your soldiers; have 
I not answered for their safety on my word as a 
gentleman?” 

‘¢ And after all,” she said, ‘‘ what right have I to 
dictate to you? Be my master henceforth. Did I not 
tell you it would drive me to despair to rule a slave?” 

‘* Monsieur le marquis,” said Major Brigaut, respect- 
fully, interrupting the conversation, ‘* how long are the 
Blues to remain here?” 

‘¢ They will leave as soon as they are rested,” said 
Marie. 

The marquis looked about the room and noticed the 


EZ The Chouans. 


agitation of those present. He left Mademoiselle de 
Verneuil, and his place beside her was at once taken by 
Madame du Gua, whose smiling and treacherous face 
was in no way disconcerted by the young chief’s bitter 
smile. Just then Francine, standing by the window, 
gave a stifled cry. Marie, noticing with amazement 
that the girl left the room, looked at Madame du Gua, 
and her surprise increased as she saw the pallor on the 
face of her enemy. Anxious to discover the meaning 
of Francine’s abrupt departure, she went to the window, 
where Madame du Gua followed her, no doubt to guard 
against any suspicions which might arise in her mind. 
They returned together to the chimney, after each had 
cast a look upon the shore and the lake, — Marie with- 
out seeing anything that could have caused Francine’s 
flight, Madame du Gua seeing that which satisfied her 
she was being obeyed. 

The lake, at the edge of which Marche-a-Terre had 
shown his head, where Madame du Gua had seen him, 
joined the moat in misty curves, sometimes broad as 
ponds, in other places narrow as the artificial stream- 
lets of a park. The steep bank, washed by its waters, 
lay a few rods from the window. Francine, watching 
on the surface of the water the black lines thrown by 
the willows, noticed, carelessly at first, the uniform 
trend of their branches, caused by a light breeze then 
prevailing. Suddenly she thought she saw against the 
glassy surface a figure moving with the spontaneous and 
irregular motion of life. The form, vague as it was, 
seemed to her that of a man. At first she attributed 
what she saw to the play of the moonlight upon the 
foliage, but presently a second head appeared, then 
several others in the distance. The shrubs upon the bank 


The Chouans. 173 


were bent and then violently straightened, and Fran- 
cine saw the long hedge undulating like one of those 
great Indian serpents of fabulous size and shape. Here 
and there, among the gorse and taller brambles, points 
of light could be seen to come and go. The girl’s at- 
tention redoubled, and she thought she recognized the 
foremost of the dusky figures ; indistinct as its outlines 
were, the beating of her heart convinced her it was no 
other than her lover, Marche-a-Terre. Eager to know 
if this mysterious approach meant treachery, she ran to 
the courtyard. When she reached the middle of its 
grass plot she looked alternately at the two wings of 
the building and along the steep shores, without dis- 
covering, on the inhabited side of the house, any sign 
of this silent approach. She listened attentively and 
heard a slight rustling, like that which might be made 
by the footfalls of some wild animal in the silence of 
the forest. She quivered, but did not tremble. Though 
young and innocent, her anxious curiosity suggested a 
ruse. She saw the coach and slipped into it, putting 
out her head to listen, with the caution of a hare giving 
ear to the sound of the distant hunters. She saw Pille- 
Miche come out of the stable, accompanied by two 
peasants, all three carrying bales of straw; these they 
spread on the ground in a way to form a long bed 
of litter before the inhabited wing of the house, parallel 
with the bank, bordered by dwarf trees. 

‘*You’re spreading straw as if you thought they ’d 
sleep here! Enough, Pille-Miche, enough!” said a low, 
grulf voice, which Francine recognized. 

‘¢ And won't they sleep here?” returned Pille-Miche 
with a laugh. ‘*I’m afraid the Gars will be angry!” 
he added, too low for Francine to hear. 


174 The Chouans. 


‘¢ Well, let him,” said Marche-h-Terre, in the same 
tone, ‘* we shall have killed the Blues anyway. Here’s 
that coach, which you and I had better put up.” 

Pille-Miche pulled the carriage by the pole and 
Marche-a-Terre pushed it by one of the wheels with 
such force that Francine was in the barn and about 
to be locked up there before she had time to reflect on 
her situation. Pille-Miche went out to fetch the barrel 
of cider, which the marquis had ordered for the escort ; 
and Marche-a-Terre was passing along the side of the 
coach, to leave the barn and close the door, when he 
was stopped by a hand which caught and held the long 
hair of his goatskin. He recognized a pair of eyes the 
gentleness of which exercised a power of magnetism 
over him, and he stood stock-still for a moment under 
their spell. Francine sprang from the carriage, and 
said, in the nervous voice of an excited woman: 
‘* Pierre, what news did you give to that lady and her 
son on the road? What is going on here? Why 
are you hiding? I must know all.” 

These words brought a look on the Chouan’s face 
which Francine had never seen there before. The Bre- 
ton led his innocent mistress to the door; there he 
turned her towards the blanching light of the moon, 
and answered, as he looked in her face with terrify- 
ing eyes: ‘* Yes, by my damnation, Francine, I will 
tell you, but not until you have sworn on these beads 
(and he pulled an old chaplet from beneath his 
goatskin) —on this relic, which you Anow well,” he 
continued, **to answer me truly one question.” 

Francine colored as she saw the chaplet, which was 
no doubt a token of their love. ‘*It was on that,” 
he added, much agitated, ‘> that you swore —” 


The Chouans. bes 


He did not finish the sentence. The young girl 
placed her hand on the lips of her savage lover and 
silenced him. 

‘* Need I swear?” she said. 

He took his mistress gently by the hand, looked at 
her for a moment and said: ‘Is the lady you are with 
really Mademoiselle de Verneuil?” 

Francine stood with hanging arms, her eyelids 
lowered, her head bowed, pale and speechless. 

‘¢She is a strumpet!” cried Marche-a-Terre, in a 
terrifying voice. 

At the word the pretty hand once more coyered his 
lips, but this time he sprang back violently. The 
girl no longer saw a lover; he had turned to a wild 
beast in all the fury of its nature. His eyebrows were 
drawn together, his lips drew apart, and he showed his 
teeth like a dog which defends its master. 

‘¢T left you pure, and I find you muck. Ha! why 
did I ever leave you! You are here to betray us; to 
deliver up the Gars!” 

These sentences sounded more like roars than words 
Though Francine was frightened, she raised her angelic 
eyes at this last accusation and answered calinly, as she 
looked into his savage face: ‘* I will pledge my eternal 
safety that that is false. That’s an idea of the lady 
you are serving.” 

He lowered his head; then she took his hand and 
nestling to him with a pretty movement said: ‘* Pierre, 
what is all this to you and me? I don’t know what 
you understand about it, but I can’t make it out. 
Recollect one thing: that noble and beautiful young 
lady has been my benefactress; she is also yours -— 
we live together like two sisters. No harm must ever 


176 The Chouans. 


come to her where we are, you and I —in our lifetime 
at least. Swear it! I trust no one here but you.” 

‘¢ J don’t command here,” said the Chouan, in a surly 
tone. 

His face darkened. She caught his long ears and 
twisted them gently as if playing with a cat. 

*¢ At least,” she said, seeing that he looked less stern, 
‘* promise me to use all the power you have to protect 
our benefactress.” 

He shook hts head as if he doubted of suecess, and 
the motion made her tremble. At this critical moment 
the escort was entering the courtyard. The tread of 
the soldiers and the rattle of their weapons awoke the 
echoes and seemed to put an end to Marche-a-Terre’s 
indecision. 

‘¢Perhaps I can save her,” he said, ‘if you make 
her stay in the house. And mind,” he added, ‘* what- 
ever happens, you must stay with her and keep silence ; 
if not, no safety.” 

‘¢T promise it,” she replied in terror. 

‘* Very good; then go in—go in at once, and hide 
your fears from every one, even your mistress.” 

i Pep,” 

She pressed his hand; he stood a moment watching 
her with an almost paternal airas she ran with the light- 
ness of a bird up the portico; then he slipped belind 
the bushes, like an actor darting behind the scenes as 
the curtain rises on a tragedy. 

‘Do you know, Merle,” said Gérard as_ they 
reached the chateau, ‘ that this place looks to me like 
a mousctrap?” 

*¢ So I think.” said the captain, anxiously. 

The two officers hastened to post sentinels to guard 


The Chouans. Lit 


the gate and the causeway; then they examined with 
great distrust the precipitous banks of the lakes and 
the surroundings of the chateau. 

‘* Pooh!” said Merle, ‘‘ we must do one of two 
things: either trust ourselves in this barrack with per- 
fect confidence, or else not enter it at all.” 

** Come, let ’s go in,” replied Gérard. 

The soldiers, released at the word of command, has- 
tened to stack their muskets in conical sheaves, and to 
form a sort of line before the litter of straw, in the mid- 
dle of which was the promised barrel of cider. They 
then divided into groups, to whom two peasants began to 
distribute butter and rye-bread. The marquis appeared 
in the portico to welcome the officers and take them to 
the salon. As Gérard went up the steps he looked at 
both ends of the portico, where some venerable larches 
spread their black branches ; and he called up Clef-des- 
Coeurs and Beau-Pied. 

‘You will each reconnoitre the gardens and search 
the bushes, and post a sentry before your line.” 

‘¢ May we light our fire before starting, adjutant?” 
asked Clef-des-Cceurs. 

Gérard nodded. 

‘There! you see, Clef-des-Ceeurs,” said Beau-Pied, 
“the adjutant’s wrong to run himself into this wasp’s- 
nest. If Hulot was in command we should n’t be cor- 
nered here — in a saucepan!” 

‘*What a stupid you are!” replied Clef-des-Coeurs, 
‘have n't you guessed, you knave of tricks, that this is 
the home of the beauty our jovial Merle has been whist- 
ling round? IJe’ll marry her to a certainty — that’s 
as clear as a well-rubbed bayonet. A woman like that 
will do honor to the brigade.” 


12 


178 The Chouans. 


‘“* True for you,” replied Beau-Pied, ‘* and you may 
add that she gives pretty good cider — but I can’t drink 
it in peace till I know what’s behind those devilish 
hedges. I always remember poor Larose and Vicux- 
Chapeau rolling down the ditch at La Pelerine. I shall 
recollect Larose’s queue to the end of my days; it went 
hammering down like the knocker of a front door.” 

‘* Beau-Pied, my friend; you have too much imagi- 
nation for a soldier; you ought to be making songs at 
the national Institute.” 

“Tf I’ve too much imagination,” retorted Beau- 
Pied, “you haven't any; it will take you some time 
to get your degree as consul.” 

A general laugh put an end to the discussion, for 
Clef-des-Ceeurs found no suitable reply in his pouch 
with which to floor his adversary. 

‘¢Come and make our rounds; I'll go to the right,” 
said Beau-Pied. 

‘¢Very good, I'll take the left,” replied his comrade. 
‘¢ But stop one minute, I must have a glass of cider; 
my throat is glued together like the oiled-silk of Iulot’s 
best hat.” 

The left bank of the gardens, which Clef-des-Ccurs 
thus delayed searching at once, was, unhappily. the dan- 
gerous slope where Francine had seen the moving line 
of men. All things go by chance in war. 

As Gérard entered the salon and bowed to the com- 
pany he cast a penetrating eye on the men who were 
present. Suspicions caine forcibly to his mind, and he 
went at once to Mademoiselle de Verneuil and said in 
alow voice: “I think you had better leave this place 
immediately. We sre not safe here.” 

** What can you fear while I am with you?” she an- 


oat 


The Chouans. 179 


swered, laughing. “ You are safer here than you would 
be at Mayenne.” 

A woman answers for her lover in good faith. The 
two officers were reassured. The party now moved into 
the dining-room after some discussion about a guest, 
apparently of some importance, who had not appeared. 
Mademoiselle de Verneuil was able, thanks to the silence 
which always reigns at the beginning of a meal, to give 
some attention to the character of the assemblage, which 
was curious enough under existing circumstances. One 
thing struck her with surprise. The Republican officers 
seemed superior to the rest of the assembly by reason 
of their dignified appearance. Their long hair tied be- 
hind in a queue drew lines beside their foreheads which 
gave, in those days, an expression of great candor and 
nobleness to young heads. Their threadbare blue uni- 
forms with the shabby red facings, even their epaulets 
flung back behind their shoulders (a sign throughout 
the army, even among the leaders, of a lack of over- 
coats), — all these things brought the two Republican 
officers into strong relief against the men who sur- 
rounded them. 

“Oh, they are the Nation, and that means liberty !” 
thought Marie; then, with a glance at the royalists, she 
added, *‘on the other side is a man, a king, and _privi- 
leges.”” She could not refrain from admiring Merle, so 
thoroughly did that gay soldier respond to the ideas she 
had formed of the French trooper who hums a tune when 
the balls are whistling, and jests when a comrade falls. 
Gérard was more imposing. Grave and self-possessed, 
he seemed to have one of those truly Republican spirits 
which, in the days of which we write, crowded the French 
armies, and gave them, by means of these noble indi 


180 The Chouans. 


vidual devotions, an energy they had never before pos: 
sessed. “ That is one of my men with great ideals,” 
thought Mademoiselle de Verneuil. ‘‘ Relying on the 
present, which they rule, they destroy the past for the 
benefit of the future.” 

The thought saddened her because she could not ap- 
ply it to her lover; towards whom she now turned, to 
discard by a different admiration, these beliefs in the 
Republic she was already beginning to dislike. Look- 
ing at the marquis, surrounded by men who were bold 
enough, fanatical enough.and sufficiently long-headed as 
to the future to give battle to a victorious Republic in 
the hope of restoring a dead monarchy, a proscribed 
religion, fugitive princes, and lost privileges, ‘* He,” 
thought she, “has no less an aim than the others; 
clinging to those fragments, he wants to make a future 
from the past.” Her mind, thus grasped by conflicting 
images, hesitated between the new and the old wrecks. 
Her conscience told her that the one was fighting for a 
man, the other for a country ; but she had now reached, 
through her feelings, the point to which reason will 
bring us, namely: to a recognition that the king i 
Nation. “gis 

The steps of a man echoed in the adjoining room, and 
the marquis rose from the table to greet him. i 
proved to be the expected guest, and seeing the as- 
sembled company he was about to speak,when the Gars 
made him a hasty sign, which he concealed from the Re- 
publicans, to take his place and say nothing. The more 
the two officers analyzed the faces about them, the more 
their suspicions increased. The clerical dress of the 
Abbé Gudin and the singularity of the Chouan gar- 
ments were so many warnings to them; they redoubled 










The Chouans. 181 


their watchfulness, and soon discovered many discre- 
pancies between the manners of the guests and the topics 
of their conversation. The republicanism of some was 
quite as exaggerated as the aristocratic bearing of others 
was unmistakable. Certain glances which they detected 
between the marquis and his guests, certain words of 
double meaning imprudently uttered, but above all the 
fringe of beard which was round the necks of several of 
the men and was very ill-concealed by their cravats, 
brought the officers at last to a full conviction of the 
truth, which flashed upon their minds at the same in- 
stant. They gave each other one look, for Madame du 
Gua had cleverly separated them and they could only 
impart their thoughts by their eyes. Such a situation 
demanded the utmost caution. They did not know 
whether they and their men were masters of the situa- 
tion, or whether they had been drawn into a trap, or 
whether Mademoiselle de Verneuil was the dupe or the 
accomplice of this inexplicable state of things. But an 
unforeseen event precipitated a crisis before they had 
fully recognized the gravity of their situation. 

The new guest was one of those solid men who are 


square at the base and square at the shoulders, with 
_ ruddy skins; men who lean backward when they walk, 


seeming to displace much atmosphere about them, and 
who appear to think that more than one glance of the 
eye is needful to take them in. Notwithstanding his 
rank, he had taken life as a joke from which he was to 
get as much amusement as possible; and yet, although 
he knelt at his own shrine only, he was kind, polite, 
and witty, after the fashion of those noblemen who, 
having finished their training at court, return to live on 
their estates, and never suspect that they have, at the 


182 The Chouans. 


end of twenty years, grown rusty. Men of this type 
fail in tact with imperturbable coolness, talk folly wit- 
tily, distrust good with extreme shrewdness, and take 
incredible pains to fall into traps. 

When, by a play of his knife and fork which pro- 
claimed him a good feeder, he had made up for lost 
time, he began to look round on the company. His 
astonishment was great when he observed the two 
Republican officers, and he questioned Madame du Gua 
with a look, while she, for all answer, showed him 
Mademoiselle de Verneuil in the same way. When he 
saw the siren whose demeanor had silenced the suspi- 
cions Madame du Gua had excited among the guests, 
the face of the stout stranger broke into one of those 
insolent, satirical smiles which contain a whole history 
of scandal. He leaned to his next neighbor and whis- 
pered a few words, which went from ear to ear and lip 
to lip, passing Marie and the two officers, until they 
reached the heart of one whom they struck to death. 
The leaders of the Vendeans and the Chouans assembled 
round that table looked at the Marquis de Montauran 
with cruel curiosity. The eyes of Madame du Gua, 
flashing with joy, turned from the marquis to Made- 
moiselle de Verneuil, who was speechless with surprise. 
The Republican officers, uneasy in mind, questioned 
each other’s thoughts as they awaited the result of this 
extraordinary scene. Ina moment the forks remained 
inactive in every hand, silence reigned, and every eye 
was turned to the Gars. <A frightful anger showed 
upon his face, which turned waxen in tone. He leaned 
towards the guest from whom the rocket had started 
and said, in a voice that seemed muffled in crape, 
** Death of ny soul! count, is that true?” 





The Chouans. 183 


“On my honor,” said the count, bowing gravely. 

The marquis lowered his eyes for a moment, then 
he raised them and looked fixedly at Marie, who, watch. 
ful of his struggle, knew that look to be her death- 
warrant. 

‘¢T would give my life,” he said in a low voice, ‘* for 
revenge on the spot.” 

Madame du Gua understood the words from the mere 
movement of the young man’s lips, and she smiled upon 
him as we smile at a friend whose regrets are about to 
cease. The scorn felt for Mademoiselle de Verneuil 
and shown on every face, brought to its height the 
growing indignation of the two Republicans, who now 
rose hastily : — 

“Do you want anything, citizens?” asked Madame 
du Gua. 

‘* Our swords, citoyenne,” said Gérard, sarcastically. 

** You do not need them at table,” said the marquis, 
coldly. 

‘*No, but we are going to play at a game you know 
very well,” replied Gérard. ‘* This is La Pélerine over 
again.” 

The whole party seemed dumfounded. Just then a 
volley, fired with terrible regularity, echoed through 
the courtyard. ‘The two officers sprang to the portico ; 
there they beheld a hundred or so of Chouans aiming 
at the few soldiers who were not shot down at the first 
discharge ; these they fired upon as upon so many hares. 
The Bretons swarmed from the bank, where Marche-a- 
Terre had posted them at the peril of their lives; for 
after the last volley, and mingling with the cries of the 
dying. several Chouans were heard to fall into the lake, 
where they were lost like stones ina gulf. Pille-Miche 





184 - The Chouans. 


took aim at Gérard; Marche-a-Terre held Merle at his 
mercy. 

** Captain,” said the marquis to Merle, repeating to 
the Republican his own words, ‘* you see that men are 
like medlars, they ripen on the straw.” He pointed with 
a wave of his hand to the entire escort of the Blues lying 
on the bloody litter where the Chouans were despatch- 
ing those who still breathed, and rifling the dead bodies 
with incredible rapidity. ‘+I was right when I told you 
that your soldiers would not get as far as La Pelerine. 
I think, moreover, that your head will fill with lead 
before mine. What say you?” 

Montauran felt a horrible necessity to vent his rage. 
His bitter sarcasm, the ferocity, even the treachery of 
this military execution, done without his orders, but 
which he now accepted, satisfied in some degree the 
craving of his heart. In his fury he would fain have 
annihilated France. The dead Blues, the living officers, 
all innocent of the crime for which he demanded ven- 
geance, were to him the cards by which a gambler 
cheats his despair. 

‘*T would rather perish thus than conquer as you are 
conquering,” said Gérard. Then, seeing the naked and 
bloody corpses of his men, he eried out, * Murdered 
basely, in cold blood!” 

‘That was how you murdered Louis XVI., mon- 
sieur,” said the marquis. 

‘* Monsieur,” replied Gérard, haughtily, “there are 
mysteries in a king's trial which you could never com- 
prehend.” 

**Do you dare to accuse the king?” exclaimed the 
marquis, 

“ Do you dare to fight your country?” retorted Gerard. 


The Chouans. 185 


“Folly!” said the marquis. 

*¢ Parricide!” exclaimed the Republican. 

‘¢ Well, well,’”’ cried Merle, gayly, ‘¢ a pretty time to 
quarrel at the moment of your death.” 

“True,” said Gérard, coldly, turning to the marquis. 
‘¢ Monsieur, if it is your intention to put us to death, at 
least have the goodness to shoot us at once.” 

‘¢ Ah! that’s like you, Gérard,” said Merle, ‘‘ always 
in a hurry to finish things. But if one has to travel far 
and can’t breakfast on the morrow, at least we might 
sup.” 

Gérard sprang forward without a word towards the 
wall. Pille-Miche covered him, glancing as he did so 
at the motionless marquis, whose silence he took for an 
order, and the adjutant-major fell like a tree. Marche- 
i-Terre ran to share the fresh booty with Pille-Miche ; 
like two hungry crows they disputed and clamored over 
the still warm body. 

‘* If you really wish to finish your supper, captain, 
you can come with me,” said the marquis to Merle. 

The captain followed him mechanically, saying in a 
low voice: ‘* It is that devil of a strumpet that caused 
all this. What will Iulot say?” 

‘¢ Strumpet!” cried the marquis, in a strangled voice, 
“then she is one?” 

The captain seemed to have given Montauran a death- 
blow, for he re-entered the house with a staggering step, 
pale, haggard, and undone. 

Another scene had meanwhile taken place in the 
dining-room, which assumed, in the marquis’s absence, 
such a threatening character that Marie, alone without 
her protector, might well faney she read her death- 
warrant in the eyes of her rival. At the noise of the 


186 The Chouans. 


volley the guests all sprang to their feet, but Madame 
du Gua remained seated. 

‘+ It is nothing,” she said; ‘* our men are despatching 
the Blues.” Then, seeing the marquis outside on the 
portico, she rose. ‘* Mademoiselle whom you here see,” 
she continued, with the calmness of concentrated fury, 
“ came here to betray the Gars! She meant to deliver 
him up to the Republic.” 

‘* IT could have done so twenty times to-day and yet 
I saved his life,” said Mademoiselle de Verneuil. 

Madame du Gua sprang upon her rival like lightning ; 
in her blind excitement she tore apart the fastenings of 
the young girl’s spencer, the stuff, the embroidery, the 
corset, the chemise, and plunged her savage hand into the 
bosom where, as she well knew, a letter lay hidden. In 
doing this her jealousy so bruised and tore the palpita- 
ting throat of her rival, taken by surprise at the sudden 
attack, that she left the bloody marks of her nails, feel- 
ing a sort of pleasure in making her submit to so de- 
grading a prostitution. In the feeble struggle which 
Maric made against the furious woman, her hair be- 
came unfastened and fell in undulating curls about her 
shoulders; her face glowed with outraged modesty, 
and tears made their burning way along her cheeks, 
heightening the brilliancy of her eyes, as she quivered 
with shame before the looks of the assembled men. 
The hardest judge would have believed in her innocence 
when he saw her sorrow, 

Hatred is so uncalculating that Madame du Gua did 
not perceive she had overshot her mark, and that no one 
listened to her as she cried triumphantly: ** You shall 
now see, gentlemen, whether I have slandered that 
horrible creature.” 


The Chouans. 187 


“Not so horrible,” said the bass voice of the guest 
who had thrown the first stone. ‘* But for my part, I 
like such horrors.” 

‘¢ Here,” continued the cruel woman, ‘‘is an order 
signed by Laplace, and counter-signed by Dubois, minis- 
ter of war.” At these names several heads were turned 
to her. ‘“ Listen to the wording of it,’ she went on. 

‘¢¢The military citizen-commanders of all grades, the 
district administrators, the procureur-syndics, et cetera, 
of the insurgent departments, and particularly those of 
the localities in which the ci-devant Marquis de Montau- 
ran, leader of the brigands and otherwise known as the 
Gars, may be found, are hereby commanded to give 
aid and assistance to the citoyenne Marie Verneuil 
and to obey the orders which she may give them at her 
discretion.’ 

‘¢ A worthless hussy takes a noble name to soil it 
with such treachery,” added Madame du Gua. 

A movement of astonishment ran through the 
assembly. 

‘¢ The fight is not even if the Republic employs such 
pretty women against us,” said the Baron du Guénic 
gayly. 

‘¢ Especially women who have nothing to lose,” said 
Madame du Gua. 

‘¢ Nothing?” cried the Chevalier du Vissard. ‘“ Made- 
moiselle has a property which probably brings her in a 
pretty good sum.” 

‘¢ The Republic must like a joke, to send strumpets 
for ambassadors,” said the Abbé Gudin. 

‘¢ Unfortunately, Mademoiselle seeks the joys that 
kill,” said Madame du Gua, with a horrible expression 
of pleasure at the end she foresaw. 


188 The Chouans. 


‘¢Then why are you still living?” said her victim, 
rising to her feet, after repairing the disorder of her 
clothes. 

This bitter sarcasm excited a sort of respect for so 
brave a victim, and silenced the assembly. Madame 
du Gua saw a satirical smile on the lips of the men, 
which infuriated her, and paying no attention to the 
marquis and Merle who were entering the room, she 
called to the Chouan who followed them. ‘ Pille- 
Miche!” she said, pointing to Mademoiselle de Ver- 
neuil, ‘* take her; she is my share of the booty, and I 
turn her over to you —do what you like with her.” 

At these words the whole assembly shuddered, for 
the hideous heads of Pille-Miche and Marche-a-Terre 
appeared behind the marquis, and the punishment was 
seen in all its horror. 

Francine was standing with clasped hands as though 
paralyzed. Mademoiselle de Verneuil, who recovered 
her presence of mind before the danger that threatened 
her, cast a look of contempt at the assembled men, 
snatched the letter from Madame du Gua’s hand, threw 
up her head with a flashing eye, and darted towards the 
door where Merle’s sword was still leaning. There she 
came upon the marquis, cold and motionless as a 
statue. Nothing pleaded for her on his fixed, firm fea- 
tures. Wounded to the heart, life seemed odious to 
her. ‘Phe man who had pledged her so much love must 
have heard the odious jests that were cast upon her, 
and stood there silently a witness of the infamy she had 
been made to endure. She might, perhaps, have for- 
given him his contempt, but she could not forgive his 
having seen her in so humiliating a position, and she 
flung hima look that was full of hatred, feeling in her 


The Chouans. 189 


heart the birth of an unutterable desire for vengeance. 
With death beside her, the sense of impotence almost 
strangled her. A whirlwind of passion and madness 
rose in her head; the blood which boiled in her veins 
made everything about her seem like a conflagration. 
Instead of killing herself, she seized the sword and 
thrust it through the marquis. But the weapon slipped 
between his arm and side; he caught her by the wrist 
and dragged her from the room, aided by Pille-Miche, 
who had flung himself upon the furious creature when 
she attacked his master. Francine shricked aloud. 
‘¢ Pierre! Pierre! Pierre!” she cried in heart-rending 
tones, as she followed her mistress. 

The marquis closed the door on the astonished com- 
pany. When he reached the portico he was still hold- 
ing the woman’s wrist, which he clasped convulsively, 
while Pille-Miche had almost crushed the bones of her 
arm with his iron fingers, but Marie felt only the burn- 
ing hand of the young leader. 

*¢ You hurt me,” she said. 

For all answer he looked at her a moment. 

** Have you some base revenge to take —like that 
woman?” she said. ‘Then, seeing the dead bodies on 
the heap of straw, she cried out, shuddering: ‘* The 
faith of a gentleman! ha! ha! ha!” With a frightful 
laugh she added: ‘* Ha! the glorious day!” 

*¢ Yes,” he said, ‘*a day without a morrow.” 

He let go her hand and took a long, last look at the 
beautiful creature he could scarcely even then renounce. 
Neither of these proud natures yielded. The marquis 
may have looked for a tear, but the eyes of the girl 
were dry and scornful. Then he turned quickly, and 
left the victim to Pille-Miche. 


190 The Chouans. 


‘¢ God will hear me, marquis,” she called. ‘*T will 
ask Him to give you a glorious day without a morrow.” 

Pille-Miche, not a little embarrassed with so rich a 
prize, dragged her away with some gentleness and a 
mixture of respect and scorn. The marquis, with a 
sigh, re-entered the dining-room, his face like that of 
a dead man whose eyes have not been closed. 

Merle’s presence was inexplicable to the silent spec- 
tators of this tragedy; they looked at him in astonish- 
ment and their eyes questioned each other. Merle saw 
their amazement, and, true to his native character, he 
said, with a smile: ‘*Gentlemen, you will scarcely 
refuse a glass of wine to a man who is about to make 
his last journey.” 

It was just as the company had calmed down under 
the influence of these words. said with a true French 
carelessness which pleased the Vendéans, that Mon- 
tauran reappeared, his face pale, his eyes fixed. 

‘* Now you shall see,” said Merle, ‘* how death can 
make men lively.” 

“Ah!” said the marquis, with a gesture as if sud- 
denly awaking, ‘* here you are, my dear councillor of 
war,” and he passed him a bottle of vin de Grave. 
replied Merle. 


? 


*©Oh, thanks, citizen marquis,’ 
‘*Now I can divert myself.” 

At this sally Madame du Gua turned to the other 
guests with a smile, saying, ‘* Let us spare him the 
dessert.” 

‘Phat is a very crucl vengeance, madame,” he said. 
‘© You forget my murdered friend who is waiting for 
me; I never miss an appointment.” 

‘* Captain,” said the marquis, throwing him his 
glove, ‘‘you are free; that’s your passport. The 





The Chouans. 191 


Chasseurs du Roi know that they must not kill all the 
game.” 

‘*So much the better for me!” replied Merle, ‘* but 
you are making a mistake; we shall come to close 
quarters before long, and I'll not let you off. Though 
your head can never pay for Gérard’s, I want it and I 
shall have it. Adieu. I could drink with my own 
assassins, but I cannot stay with those of my friend ;” 
and he disappeared, leaving the guests astonished at 
his coolness. 

*¢ Well, gentlemen, what do you think of the lawyers 
and surgeons and bailiffs who manage the Republic,” 
said the Gars, coldly. 

‘*God’s-death ! marquis,” replied the Comte de Ban- 
van; ** they have shocking manners; that fellow pre- 
sumed to be impertinent, it seems to me.” 

The captain’s hasty retreat had a motive. The de- 
spised, humiliated woman, who was even then, perhaps, 
being put to death, had so won upon him during the 
scene of her degradation that he said to himself, as he 
left the room, ‘If she is a prostitute, she is not an 
ordinary one, and I’ll marry her.” He felt so sure of 
being able to rescue her from the savages that his first 
thought, when his own life was given to him, was to 
save hers. Unhappily, when he reached the portico, 
he found the courtyard deserted. He looked about him, 
listened to the silence, and could hear nothing but the 
distant shouts and laughter of the Chouans, who were 
drinking in the gardens and dividing their booty. He 
turned the corner to the fatal wing before which his 
men had been shot, and from there he could distinguish, 
by the feeble light of a few stray lanterns, the different 
groups of the Chasseurs du Roi. Neither Pille-Miche, 


2 44st, + 
yet My = 
es 


192 The Chouans. 


nor Marche-a-Terre, nor the girl were visible; but he 
felt himself gently pulled by the flap of his uniform, 
and, turning round, saw Francine on her knees. 

‘* Where is she?” he asked. 

‘“T don’t know; Pierre drove me back and told me 
not to stir from here.” 

‘* Which way did they go?” 

‘¢ That way,” she replied, pointing to the causeway. 

The captain and Francine then noticed in that direc- 
tion a line of strong shadows thrown by the moonlight 
on the lake, and among them that of a female figure. 

‘¢Tt is she!” cried Francine. 

Mademoiselle de Verneuil seemed to be standing, as 
if resigned, in the midst of other figures, whose gestures 
denoted a debate. 

“There are several,” said the captain. ‘* Well, no 
matter, let us go to them.” 

‘* You will get yourself killed uselessly,” said Fran- 
cine. 

‘*T have been killed once before to-day,” he said 
gayly, 

They both walked towards the gloomy gateway which 
led to the causeway; there Francine suddenly stopped 
short. 

** No,” she said, gently, ‘*T’ll go no farther; Pierre 
told me not to meddle; I believe in him; if we go on 
we shall spoil all. Do as you please, officer, but leave 
mec. If Pierre saw us together he would kill you.” 

Just then Pille-Miche appeared in the gateway and 
called to the postilion who was left in the stable. <At 
the same moment he saw the captain and covered him 
with his musket, shouting out, ‘By Saint Anne of 
Auray: the rector was right cnough in telling us the 


The Chouans. 193 


Blues had signed a compact with the devil. Ill bring 
you to lite, I will!” 

‘* Stop! my life is sacred,” cried Merle, seeing his 
danger. “There’s the glove of your Gars,” and he 
held it out. 

‘¢ Ghosts’ lives are not sacred,” replied the Chouan, 
“and I sha’n’t give you yours. Ave Maria!” 

He fired, and the ball passed through his victim’s 
head. The captain fell. When Francine reached him 
she heard him mutter the words, ‘“I’d rather die with 
them than return without them.” 

The Chouan sprang upon the body to strip it, saying, 
‘*There’s one good thing about ghosts, they come to 
life in their clothes.” Then, recognizing the Gars’ 
glove, that sacred safeguard, in the captain’s hand, he 
stopped short, terrified. ‘*I wish I wasn’t in the skin 
of my mother’s son!” he exclaimed, as he turned and 
disappeared with the rapidity of a bird. 

To understand this scene, so fatal to poor Merle, we 
must follow Mademoiselle de Verneuil after the mar- 
quis, in his fury and despair, had abandoned her to 
Pille-Miche. Francine had caught Marche-a-Terre by 
the arm and reminded him, with sobs, of the promise he 
had made her. Pille-Miche was already dragging away 
his victim like a heavy bundle. Marie, her head and 
hair hanging back, turned her eyes to the lake; but 
held as she was in a grasp of iron she was forced to 
follow the Chouan, who turned now and then to hasten 
her steps, and each time that he did so a jovial thought 
brought a hideous smile upon his face. 

“Isn't she a morsel!” he cried, with a coarse laugh. 

Hearing the words, Francine recovered speech. 

‘+ Pierre?” 

13 





194 The Chouans, 


‘* Well, what?” 

*¢ He ’ll kill her.” 

‘+ Not at once.” 

‘* Then she ‘ll kill herself, she will never submit ; and 
if she dies I shall die too.” 

‘*Then you love her too much, and she shall die,” 
said Marche-a-Terre. 

“Pierre! if we are rich and happy we owe it all to 
her ; but, whether or no, you promised me to save her.” 

** Well, Ill try; but you must stay here, and don’t 
move.” 

Francine at once let go his arm, and waited in horri- 
ble suspense in the courtyard where Merle found her. 
Meantime Marche-a-Terre joined his comrade at the 
moment when the latter, after dragging his victim to 
the barn, was compelling her to get into the coach. 
Pille-Miche called to him to help in pulling out the 
vehicle. 

‘* What are you going to do with all that?” asked 
Marche-a-Terre. 

‘* The Grande Garce gave me the woman, and all that 
belongs to her is mine.” 

“ The coach will put a sou or two in your pocket; 
but as for the woman, she ‘Il scratch your eyes out like 
a cat.” 

Pille-Miche burst into a roar of laughter. 

‘* Then I jl tie her and take her home,” he answered. 

‘* Very good; suppose we harness the horses,” said 
Marche-a-Terre. 

A few moments later Marche-a-Terre, who had left 
his comrade mounting guard over his prey, led the 
coach from the stable to the causeway, where Pille- 
Miche got into it beside Mademoiselle de Verneuil, not 


The Chouans. 195 


perceiving that she was on the point of making a spring 
into the lake. 

**T say, Pille-Miche!” cried Marche-a-Terre. 

What!” 

*¢T Il buy all your booty.” 

‘¢ Are you joking?” asked the other, catching his 
prisoner by the petticoat, as a butcher catches a calf that 
is trying to escape him. 

‘+ Let me see her, and I'll set a price.” 

The unfortunate creature was made to leave the coach 
and stand between the two Chouans, who each held a 
hand and looked at her as the Elders must have looked 
at Susannah. 

“Will you take thirty francs in good coin?” said 
Marche-a-Terre, with a groan. 

«Really ¥” 

** Done?” said Marche-a-Terre, holding out his hand. 

‘Yes, done; I can get plenty of Breton girls for 
that, and choice morsels, too. But the coach; whose 
is that?” asked Pille-Miche, beginning to reflect upon 
his bargain. 

‘‘ Mine!” cried Marche-a-Terre, in a terrible tone of 
voice, which showed the sort of superiority his ferocious 
character gave him over his companions. 

“But suppose there’s money in the coach?” 

** Did n’t you say, ‘Done’?” 

f© Yes, I-said, “Done,” 

‘¢ Very good; then go and fetch the postilion who is 
gagged in the stable over there.” 

‘* But if there’s money in the —” 

‘‘Ts there any?” asked Marche-a-Terre, roughly, 
shaking Marie by the arm. 

*¢ Yes, about a hundred crowns.” 


196 The Chouans. 


The two Chouans looked at each other. 

** Well, well, friend,” said Pille-Miche, ** we won’t 
quarrel for a female Blue; let ‘s pitch her into the lake 
with a stone round her neck, and divide the money.” 

‘+ J ll give you all that money as my share in d Orge- 
monts ransom,” said Marche-i-Terre, smothering a 
groan, caused by such sacrifice. 

Pille-Miche uttered a sort of hoarse cry as he started 
to find the postilion. and his glee brought death to 
Merle, whom he met on his way. 

Hearing the shot, Marche-a-Terre rushed in the 
direction where he had left Francine, and found her 
praying on her knees, with clasped hands, beside the 
poor captain, whose murder had deeply horrified her. 

‘Run to your mistress,” said the Chouan; ‘she is 
saved.” 

He ran himself to fetch the postilion, returning with 
all speed, and, as he repassed Merle’s body, he noticed 
the Gars’ glove, which was still convulsively clasped in 
the dead hand. ; 

* Oho!” he eried. ‘ Pille-Miche has blundered 
horribly —he won't live to spend his crowns.” 

He snatched up the glove and said to Mademoiselle 
de Verneuil, who was already in the coach with Fran- 
cine: ** Here, take this glove. If any of our men 
attack you on the road, call out ‘Ho, the Gars!’ show 
the glove, and no harm can happen to you. Fran- 
cine,” he said, turning towards her and seizing her 
hand violently, ** you and I are quits with that woman ; 
come with me and let the devil have her.” 

‘© You can’t ask me to abandon her just at this 
moment!” cried Francine, in distress. 

Marche-a-Terre scratched his ear and forehead, then 





The Chouans. 197 


he raised his head, and his mistress saw the ferocious 
expression of his eyes. ‘* You are right,” he said; ‘I 
leave you with her one week; if at the end of that 
time you don’t come with me —” he did not finish the 
sentence, but he slapped the muzzle of his gun with 
the flat of his hand. After making the gesture of 
taking aim at her, he disappeared, without waiting 
for her reply. 

No sooner was he gone than a voice, which seemed 
to issue from the lake, called, in a muffled tone: 
“ Madame, madame!” 

The postilion and the two women shuddered, for 
several corpses were floating near them. A Blue, 
hidden behind a tree, cautiously appeared. 

‘¢Let me get up behind the coach, or I’m a dead 
man. That damned cider which Clef-des-Cceurs would 
stop to drink cost more than a pint of blood. If 
he had done as I did, and made his round, our poor 
comrades there wouldn’t be floating dead in the 
pond.” 


While these events were taking place outside the 
chateau, the leaders sent by the Vendéans and those of 
the Chouans were holding a council of war, with their 
glasses in their bands, under the presidency of the 
Marquis de Montauran. Frequent libations of Bor- 
deaux animated the discussion, which, however, be- 
came more serious and important at the end of the 
meal. After the general plan of military operations 
had been decided on, the Royalists drank to the health 
of the Bourbons. It was at that moment that the shot 
which killed Merle was heard, like an echo of the dis- 
astrous war which these gay and noble conspirators 


198 The Chouans. 


were about to make against the Republic. Madame 


du Gua quivered with pleasure at the thought that she 
was freed from her rival; the guests looked at each 
other in silence; the marquis rose from the table and 
went out. 

‘s He loved her!” said Madame du Gua, sarecasti- 
cally. “Follow him, Monsieur de Fontaine, and keep 
him company ; he will be as irritating as a fly if we let 
him sulk.” 

She went to a window which looked on the courtyard 
to endeavor to see Marie’s body. There, by the last 
gleams of the sinking moon, she caught sight of the 
coach being rapidly driven down the avenue of apple- 
trees. Mademciselle de Verneuil’s veil was fluttering 
in the wind. Madame du Gua, furious at the sight, 
left the room hurriedly. The marquis, standing on 
the portico absorbed in gloomy thought, was watching 
about a hundred and fifty Chouans, who, having di- 
vided their booty in the gardens, were now returning 
to finish the cider and the rye-bread provided for the 
Blues. ‘These soldiers of a new species, on whom the 
monarchy was resting its hopes, dispersed into groups. 
Some drank the cider; others, on the bank before the 
portico, amused themselves by flinging into the lake 
the dead bodies of the Blues, to which they fastened 
stones. ‘This sight, joined to the other aspects of the 
strange scene, — the fantastic dress, the savage expres- 
sions of the barbarous and uncouth gars, — was so new 
and so amazing to Monsicur de Fontaine, accustomed 
to the nobler and better-regulated appearance of the 
Vendéan troops, that he seized the occasion to say to 
the Marquis de Montauran, ‘*‘ What do you expect to 
do with such brutes?” 


The Chouans. 199 


‘* Not very much, my dear count,” replied the Gars. 

‘* Will they ever be fit to manceuvre before the 
enemy?” 

** Never.” 

‘*Can they even understand or execute an order?” 

SOK 

‘¢ Then what good will they be to you?” 

‘¢ They will help me to plunge my sword into the en- 
trails of the Republic,” replied the marquis in a thunder- 
ing voice. ** They will give me Fougeres in three days, 
and all Brittany in ten! Monsieur,’ he added in a 
gentler voice, ‘* start at once for La Vendée; if d’Auti- 
camp, Suzannet, and the Abbé Bernier will act as 
rapidly as I do, if they ‘Il not negotiate with the First 
Consul, as I am afraid they will” (here he wrung the 
hand of the Vendéan chief) ‘* we shall be within reach 
of Paris in a fortnight.” 

‘¢ But the Republic is sending sixty thousand men 
and General Brune against us.” 

‘¢ Sixty thousand men! indeed!” cried the marquis, 
with ascofting langh. ‘* And how will Bonaparte carry 
on the Italian campaign? As for General Brune, he is 
not coming. The First Consul has sent him against the 
English in Holland, and General Hédouville, the friend 
of our friend Barras, takes his place here. Do you 
understand ? ” 

As Monsieur de Fontaine heard these words he gave 
Montauran a look of keen intelligence which seemed to 
say that the marquis had not himself understood the 
real meaning of the words addressed to him. The two 
leaders then comprehended each other perfectly, and the 
Gars replied with an undefinable smile to the thoughts 
expressed in both their eyes: ‘* Monsicur de Fontaine, 


200 The Chouans. 


do you know my arms? our motto is ‘Persevere unto 
death.’ ” 

The Comte de Fontaine took Montauran’s hand and 
pressed it, saying: ‘* I was left for dead at Quatre- 
Chemins, therefore you need never doubt me. But be- 
lieve in my experience — times have changed.” 

“¢Yes,” said La Billarditre, who now joined them. 
‘* You are young, marquis. Listen to me; your prop- 
erty has not yet been sold —” 

‘“* Ah!” cried Montauran, ** can you conceive of de- 
votion without sacrifice?” 

** Do you really know the king?” 

ide Wee ad 

‘¢'Then I admire your loyalty.” 

‘¢The king,” rephed the young chieftain, ‘‘is the 
priest ; Iam fighting not for the man, but for the faith.” 

They parted, — the Vendéan leader convinced of the 
necessity of yielding to circumstances and keeping his 
beliefs in the depths of his heart; La Billardiere to re- 
turn to his negotiations in England; and Montauran to 
fight savagely and compel the Vendéans, by the victories 
he expected to win, to co-operate in his enterprise. 


The events of the day had excited such violent emo- 
tions in Mademoiselle de Verneuil’s whole being that 
she lay back almost fainting in the carriage, after giving 
the order to drive to Fougcres. Francine was as silent 
as her mistress. The postilion, dreading some new 
disaster, made all the haste he could to reach the high- 
road, and was soon on the summit of La Pélerine. 
Through the thick white mists of morning Marie de 
Verneuil crossed the broad and beautiful valley of 
Coucsnon (where this history began) scarcely able to 


The Chouans. 201 


distinguish the slaty rock on which the town of Pou- 
géres stands from the slopes of La Pelerine. They 
were still eight miles from it. Shivering with cold her- 
self, Mademoiselle de Verneuil recollected the poor 
soldier behind the carriage, and insisted, against his 
remonstrances, in taking him into the carriage beside 
Francine. The sight of Fougéres drew her for a time 
out of her reflections. The sentinels stationed at the 
Porte Saint-Léonard refused to allow ingress to the 
strangers, and she was therefore obliged to exhibit 
the ministerial order. This at once gave her safety in 
entering the town, but the postilion could find no other 
place for her to stop at than the Poste inn. 

** Madame,” said the Blue whose life she had saved. 
‘¢Tf you ever want a sabre to deal some special blow, 
my life is yours. I am good for that. My name is 
Jean Falcon, otherwise called Beau-Pied, sergeant of 
the first company of Hulot’s veterans, seventy-second 
half-brigade, nicknamed ‘ Les Mayengais.” Excuse my 
vanity ; I can only offer you the soul of a sergeant, but 
that’s at your service.” 

He turned on his heel and walked off whistling. 

‘¢'The lower one goes in social life,” said Marie, bit- 
terly, ** the more we find generous feelings without 
display. A marquis returns me death for life, and a 
poor sergeant — but enough of that.” 

When the weary woman was at last in a warm bed, 
her faithful Francine waited in vain for the affectionate 
good-night to which she was accustomed ; but her mis- 
tress, seeing her still standing and evidently uneasy, 
made her a sign of distress. 

‘¢'This ig called a day, Francine,” she said; ‘* but I 
have aged ten years in it.” 


202 The Chouans. 


The next morning, as soon as she had risen, Corentin 
came to see her and she admitted him. 

‘¢ Francine,” she exclaimed, ‘* my degradation is 
great indeed, for the thought of that man is not dis- 
agreeable to me.” 

Still, when she saw him, she felt once more, for the 
hundredth time, the instinctive repulsion which two 
years’ intercourse had increased rather than lessened. 

‘¢ Well,” he said, smiling, ** I felt certain you were 
succeeding. Was I mistaken? did you get hold of the 
wrong man?” 

‘¢Corentin,” she replied, with a Wull look of pain, 
‘*never mention that affair to me unless I speak of it 
myself.” 

He walked up and down the room casting oblique 
glances at her, endeavoring to guess the secret thoughts 
of the singular woman whose mere glance had the power 
of discomfiting at times the cleverest men. 

‘¢T foresaw this check,” he replied, after a moment’s 
silence. ‘*If you would be willing to establish your 
headquarters in this town, I have already found a suit- 
able place for you. We are in the very centre of Chou- 
annerie. Will you stay here?” 

She answered with an affirmative sign, which enabled 
Corentin to make conjectures, partly correct, as to the 
events of the preceding evening. 

‘¢T can hire a house for you, a bit of national prop- 
erty still unsold. They are behind the age in these 
parts. No one has dared buy the old barrack because 
it belonged to an émigré who was thought to be harsh. 
It is close to the church of Saint Léonard; and on my 
word of honor the view from it is dclightful. Something 


can really be made of the old place; will you try it?” 


The Chouans. 203 


‘6 Yes, at once,” she cried. 

‘¢T want a few hours to have it cleaned and put in 
order for you, so that you may like it.” 

‘¢ What matter?” she said. ‘I could live in a cloister 
or a prison without caring. However, see that every- 
thing is in order before night, so that I may sleep there 
in perfect solitude. Go, leave me; your presence is 
intolerable. I wish to be alone with Francine; she is 
better for me than my own company, perhaps. Adieu; 
go — go, I say.” 

These words, said volubly with a mingling of co- 
quetry, depotism, and passion, showed she had entirely 
recovered her self-possession. Sleep had no doubt 
classified the impressions of the preceding day, and 
reflection had determined her on vengeance. If a few 
reluctant signs appeared on her face they only proved 
the ease with which certain women can bury the better 
feelings of their souls, and the cruel dissimulation which 
enables them to smile sweetly while planning the de- 
struction of a victim. She sat alone after Corentin had 
left her, thinking how she could get the marquis still liv- 
ing into her toils. For the first time in her life this woman 
had lived according to her inmost desires; but of that 
life nothing remained but one craving, — that of ven- 
geance, — vengeance complete and infinite. It was her 
one thought, her sole desire. Francine’s words and 
attentions were unnoticed. Marie seemed to be sleep- 
ing with her eyes open; and the long day passed with- 
out an action or even a gesture that bore testimony to 
her thoughts. She lay on a couch which she had made 
of chairs and pillows. It was late in the evening when 
a few words escaped her, as if involuntarily. 

*¢ My child,” she said to Francine, ‘‘I understood 


204 The Chouans. 


yesterday what it was to live for love; to-day I know 
what it means to die for vengeance. Yes, I will give 
my life to seek him wherever he may be, to meet him, 
seduce him, make him mine! If I do not have that 
man, who dared to despise me, at my feet humble and 
submissive, if I do not make him my lackey and my 
slave, I shall indeed be base; I shall not be a woman; 
T shall not be myself.” 

The house which Corentin now hired for Mademoi- 
selle de Verneuil offered many gratifications to the in- 
nate love of luxury and elegance that was part of this 
girl, The capricious creature took possession of it with 
regal composure, as of a thing which already belonged 
to her; she appropriated the furniture and arranged it 
with intuitive sympathy, as though she had known it 
all her life. This is a vulgar detail, but one that is not 
unimportant in sketching the character of so exceptional 
mf person. She seemed to have been already familiar- 
ized in a dreamin with the house in which she now lived 
on her hatred as she might have lived on her love. 

‘* At least,’ she snid to herself, ** I did not rouse 
insulting pity in him; I do not owe him my life. Oh, 
my first, my last, my only love! what an end to it!” 
She sprang upon Francine, who was terrified. ‘* Do you 
love a man? Oh, yes, yes, I remember; you do. I 
am glad I have a woman here who can understand me. 
Ah, my poor Francette, man is a miserable being. Ha! 
he said he loved me, and his love could not bear the slight- 
est test! But I, —if all men had aceused him I would 
have defended him; if the universe rejected him my 
soul should have been his refuge. In the old days life 
was filled with human beings coming and going for 
whom I did not care; it was sad and dull, but not hor- 





The Chouans. 905 


rible; but now, now, what is life without him? He 
will live on, and I not near him! I shall not see him, 
speak to him, feel him, hold him, press him,—ha! I 
would rather strangle him myself in his sleep!” 

Francine, horrified, looked at her in silence. 

‘¢ Kill the man you love?” she said, in a soft voice. 

‘¢ Yes, yes, if he ceases to love me.” 

But after those ruthless words she hid her face in her 
hands, and sat down silently. 

The next day a man presented himself without being 
announced. His face was stern. It was Hulot, fol- 
lowed by Corentin. Mademoiselle de Verneuil looked 
at the commandant and trembled. 

‘¢ You have come,” she said, ‘* to ask me to account 
for your friends. They are dead.” 

‘¢] know it,” he replied, ‘* and not in the service of 
the Republic.” 

‘¢ For me, and by me,” she said. ‘* You preach the 
nation tome. Can the nation bring to life those who 
die for her? Can she even avenge them? But I—I 
will avenge them!” she cried. The awful images of 
the catastrophe filled her imagination suddenly, and 
the graceful creature who held modesty to be the first 
of women’s wiles forgot herself in a moment of mad- 
ness, and marched towards the amazed commandant 
brusquely. 

‘¢ In exchange for a few murdered soldiers,” she said, 
‘*T will bring to the block a head which is worth a 
million heads of other men. It is not a woman’s busi- 
ness to make war; but you, old as you are, shall learn 
good stratagems of me. Ill deliver a whole family to 
your bayonets — him, his ancestors. his past. his future. 
I will be as false and treacherous to him as I was good 


I 


206 The Chouans. 


and true. Yes, commandant, I will bring that little 
noble to my arms, and he shall leave them to go to 
death. I will have no other rival. The wretch himself 
pronounced his doom,—a duy without a morrow. 
Your Republic and I shall be avenged. The Repub- 
lic!”” she cried in a voice the strange intonations of 
which horrified Hulot. ‘* Is he to die for bearing arms 
against the nation? Shall I suffer France to rob me of 
my vengeance? Ah! what a little thing is life! death 
can expiate but one crime. He has but one head to 
fall, but I will make him know in one night that he 
loses more than life. Commandant, you who will kill 
him,” and she sighed, ‘‘ see that nothing betrays my 
betrayal; he must die convinced of my fidelity. I ask 
that of you. Let him know only me—me, and my 
caresses ! ’’ 

She stopped; but through the crimson of her cheeks 
Hulot and Corentin saw that rage and delirium had not 
entirely smothered all sense of shame. Marie shud- 
dered violently as she said the words; she seemed to 
listen to them as though she doubted whether she her- 
self had said them, and she made the involuntary move- 
ment of a woman whose veil is falling from her. 

** But you had him in your power,” said Corentin. 

‘Very likely.” 

‘¢ Why did you stop me when I had him?” asked 
Hulot. 

‘*T did not know what he would prove to be,” she 
cried. Then, suddenly, the excited woman, who was 
walking up and down with hurried steps and casting 
savage glances at the spectators of the storm, calmed 
down. ‘+I do not know myself,” she said, in a man’s 
tone. ‘* Why talk? I must go and find him.” 





The Chouans. 207 


‘¢Go and find him?” said Hulot. ‘* My dear woman, 
take care: we are not yet masters of this part of the 
country ; if you venture outside of the town you will be 
taken or killed before you ’ve gone a hundred yards.” 

‘¢ There ’s never any danger for those who seek ven- 
geance,” she said, driving from her presence with a 
disdainful gesture the two men whom she was ashamed 
to face. 

‘¢ What a woman!” cried Hulot, as he walked away 
with Corentin. ‘+A queer idea of those police fellows 
in Paris to send her here; but she ’ll never deliver him 
up to us,” he added, shaking his head. 

‘*Oh yes, she will,” replied Corentin. 

‘¢ Don’t you see she loves him?” said Hulot. 

‘6 That ’s just why she will. Besides,” looking at the 
amazed commandant, ‘*I am here to see that she 
does n't commit any folly. In my opinion, comrade, 
there is no love in the world worth the three hundred 
thousand francs she ’ll make out of this.” 

When the police diplomatist left the soldier the latter 
stood looking after him, and as the sound of the man’s 
steps died away he gave a sigh, muttering to himself, 
*¢Tt may be a good thing after all to be such a dullard 
as Iam. God’s thunder! if I meet the Gars I'll fight 
him hand to hand, or my name’s not Ifulot; for if that 
fox brings him before me in any of their new-fangled 
councils of war, my honor will be as soiled as the shirt 
of a young trooper who is under fire for the first time.” 

The massacre at La Vivetitre, and the desire to 
avenge his friends had led Hulot to accept a reinstate- 
ment in his late command; in fact. the new minister, 
Berthier, had refused to accept his resignation under 
existing circumstances. To the official dispatch was 


208 The Chouans. 


added a private letter, in which, without explaining the 
mission of Mademoiselle de Verneuil, the minister in- 
formed him that the affair was entirely outside of the 
war, and was not to interfere with any military opera- 
tions. The duty of the commanders, he said, was lim- 
ited to giving needed assistance to that honorable 
citoyenne, if occasion arose. Learning from his scouts 
that the movements of the Chouans all tended towards 
a concentration of their forces in the neighborhood of 
Fougéres, Hulot had secretly and with forced marches 
brought two battalions of his brigade into the town. 
The nation’s danger, his hatred of aristocracy, whose 
partisans threatened to convulse so large a section of 
country, his desire to avenge his murdered friends, 
revived in the old veteran the fire of his youth. 


‘So this is the life I craved,” exclaimed Mademoi- 
selle de Verneuil, when she was left alone with Fran- 
cine. ‘* No matter how fast the hours go, they are to 
me like centuries of thought.” 

Suddenly she took Francine’s hand, and her voice, 
soft as that of the first red-throat singing after a storm, 
slowly gave sound to the following words : — 

‘*Try as I will to forget them, I sce those two deli- 
cious lips, that chin just raised, those eyes ef fire; I 
hear the ‘Ifue!’ of the postilion; I dream, I dream, — 
why then such hatred on awakening!” 

She drew a long sigh, rose, and then for the first time 
looked out upon the country delivered over to civil war 
by the cruel leader whom she was plotting to destroy. 
Attracted by the scene she wandered out to breathe at 
her ease beneath the sky ; and though her steps con- 
ducted her at a venture, she was surely led to the 


The Chouans. 209 


Promenade of the town by one of those occult impulses 
of the soul which lead us to follow hope irrationally. 
Thoughts conceived under the dominion of that spell 
are often realized; but we then attribute their pre- 
vision to a power we call presentiment, — an inexpli- 
cable power, but a real one, — which our passions find 
accommodating, like a fiatterer who, among his many 
lies, does sometimes tell the truth. 


14 


210 The Chouans. 


Er: 


A DAY WITHOUT A MORROW. 


Tue preceding events of this history having been 
greatly influenced by the formation of the regions in 
which they happened, it is desirable to give a minute 
description of them, without which the closing scenes 
might be difficult of comprehension. 

The town of Fougéres is partly built upon a slate 
rock, which seems to have slipped from the mountains 
that hem in the broad valley of Couésnon to the west 
and take various names according to their localities. 
The town is separated from the mountains by a gorge, 
through which flows a small river called the Nangon. 
To the east, the view is the same as from the summit 
of La Pélerine ; to the west, the town looks down into 
the tortuous yalley of the Nancon; but there is a spot 
from which a section of the great valley and the pictur- 
esque windings of the gorge can be seen at the same 
time. This place, chosen by the inhabitants of the 
town for their Promenade, and to which the steps of 
Mademoiselle de Yerneuil were now turned, was des- 
tined to be the theatre on which the drama begun at 
La Viveti¢re was to end. Therefore, however pictur- 
esque the other parts of Fougeres may be, attention 
must be particularly given to the scenery which meets 
the eve from this terrace. 





The Chouans. ra 


To give an idea of the rock on which Fougtres 
stands, as seen on this side, we may compare it to one 
of those immense towers circled by Saracen architects 
with balconies on each story, which were reached by 
spiral stairways. To add to this effect, the rock is 
capped by a Gothie church, the small spires, clock- 
tower, and buttresses of which make its shape almost 
precisely that of a sugar-loaf. Before the portal of this 
church, which is dedicated to Saint-Léonard, is a small, 
irregular square, where the soil is held up by a but- 
tressed wall, which forms a balustrade and communi- 
cates by a flight of steps with the Promenade. ‘This 
public walk, like a second cornice, extends round the 
rock a few rods below the square of Saint-Léonard ; it 
is a broad piece of ground planted with trees, and it 
joins the fortifications of the town. About ten rods 
below the walls and rocks which support this Prome- 
nade (due to a happy combination of indestructible slate 
and patient industry) another circular road _ exists, 
called the ‘* Queen’s Staircase;” this is cut in the 
rock itself and leads to a bridge built across the Nanecon 
by Anne of Brittany. Below this road, which forms 
a third cornice, gardens descend, terrace after terrace, 
to the river, like shelves covered with flowers. 

Parallel with the Promenade, on the other side of 
the Nancon and across its narrow valley, high rock- 
formations, called the heights of Saint-Sulpice, follow 
the stream and descend in gentle slopes to the great 
valley, where they turn abruptly to the north. To- 
wards the south, where the town itself really ends and 
the faubourg Saint-Léonard begins, the Fougéres rock 
makes a bend, becomes less steep, and turns into the 
great valley, following the course of the river, which it 


pal The Chouans. 


hems in between itself and the heights of Saint-Sulpice, 
forming a sort of pass through which the water es- 
capes in two streamlets to the Couésnon, into which 
they fall. This pretty group of rocky hills is called the 
‘* Nid-aux-Crocs ;” the little vale they surround is the 
‘*Val de Gibarry,” the rich pastures of which supply 
the butter known to epicures as that of the ‘‘ Prée- 
Valaye.” 

At the point where the Promenade joins the fortifica- 
tions is a tower called the ‘* Tour de Papegaut.” Close 
to this square erection, against the side of which the 
house now occupied by Mademoiselle de Verneuil rested, 
is a wall, partly built by hands and partly formed of 
the native rock where it offered a smooth surface. 
Here stands a gateway leading to the faubourg of Saint- 
Sulpice and bearing the same name. Above, on a 
breastwork of granite which commands the three val- 
leys, rise the battlements and feudal towers of the 
ancient castle of Fougéres, — one of those enormous 
erections built by the Dukes of Brittany, with lofty 
walls fifteen feet thick, protected on the east by a pond 
from which flows the Nangon, the waters of which fill 
its moats, and on the west by the inaccessible granite 
rock on which it stands. 

Seen from the Promenade, this magnificent relic of 
the Middle Ages, wrapped in its ivy mantle, adorned 
with its square or rounded towers, in either of which a 
whole regiment could be quartered, — the castle, the 
town, and the rock, protected by walls with sheer sur- 
faces, or by the glacis of the fortifications, form a huge 
horseshoe, lined with precipices, on which the Bretons 
have, in course of ages, cut various narrow footways. 
Here and there the rocks push out like architectural 


The Chouans. ots 


adornments. Streamlets issue from the fissures, where 
the roots of stunted trees are nourished. Farther on, a 
few rocky slopes, less perpendicular than the rest, afford 
a scanty pasture for the goats. On all sides heather, 
growing from every crevice, flings its rosy garlands 
over the dark, uneven surface of the ground. At the 
bottom of this vast funnel the little river winds through 
meadows that are always cool and green, lying softly 
like a carpet. 

Beneath the castle and among the granite bowlders 
is a church dedicated to Saint-Sulpice, whose name 
is given to the suburb which lies across the Nancon. 
This suburb, flung as it were to the bottom of a preci- 
pice, and its church, the spire of which does not rise to 
the height of the rocks which threaten to crush it, are 
picturesquely watered by several affluents of the Nan- 
con, shaded by trees and brightened by gardens. The 
whole region of Fougéres, its suburbs, its churches, and 
the hills of Saint-Sulpice are surrounded by the heights 
of Rillé, which form part of a general range of moun- 
tains inclosing the broad valley of Couésnon. 

Such are the chief features of this landscape, the 
principal characteristic of which is a rugged wildness 
softened by smiling accidents, by a happy blending of the 
finest works of men’s hands with the capricious lay of 
a land full of unexpected contrasts, by a something, 
hardly to be explained, which surprises, astonishes, and 
puzzles. In no other part of France can the traveller 
mect with such grandiose contrasts as those offered by 
the great basin of the Couésnon, and the valleys hidden 
among the rocks of Fougeres and the heights of Ruillé. 
Their beauty is of that unspeakable kind in which 
chance triumphs and all the harmonies of Nature do 


HAE! The Chouans. 


their part. The clear, limpid, flowing waters, the 
mountains clothed with the vigorous vegetation of those 
regions, the sombre rocks, the graceful buildings, the 
fortifications raised by nature, and the granite towers 
built by man; combined with all the artifices of light 
and shade, with the contrasts of the varicties of foliage, 
with the groups of houses where an active population 
swarms, with the lonely barren places where the granite 
will not suffer even the lichen to fasten on its surface, 
in short, with all the ideas we ask a landscape to 
possess: grace and awfulness, poesy with its renascent 
magic, sublime pictures, delightful ruralities, — all these 
are here; it is Brittany in bloom. 

The tower called the Papegaut, against which the 
house now occupied by Mademoiselle de Verneuil 
rested, has its base at the very bottom of the preci- 
pice, and rises to the esplanade which forms the cornice 
or terrace before the church of Saint-Léonard. From 
Marie’s house, which was open on three sides, could be 
seen the horseshoe (which begins at the tower itself), 
the winding valley of the Nancon, and the square of 
Saint-Léonard. It is one of a group of wooden build- 
ings standing parallel with the western side of the 
church, with which they form an alley-way, the farther 
end of which opens on a steep street skirting the church 
and leading to the gate of Saint-Léonard, along which 
Mademoiselle de Verneuil now made her way. 

Marie naturally avoided entering the square of the 
church which was then above her, and turned towards 
the Promenade. The magnificence of the scene which 
met her eyes silenced fora moment the tumult of her 
passions. She admired the vast trend of the valley, 
which her eyes took in, from the summit of La Pelerine 


The Chouans. pana 


to the plateau where the main road to Vitry passes ; then 
her eyes rested on the Nid-aux-Crocs and the winding 
gorges of the Val de Gibarry, the crests of which were 
bathed in the misty glow of the setting sun. She was 
almost frightened by the depth of the valley of the 
Nancon, the tallest poplars of which scarcely reached 
to the level of the gardens below the Queen’s Stair- 
case. At this time of day the smoke from the houses 
in the suburbs and in the valleys made a vapor in the 
air, through which the various objects had a bluish 
tinge; the brilliant colors of the day were beginning to 
fade; the firmament took a pearly tone; the moon was 
casting its veil of light into the ravine ; all things tended 
to plunge the soul into revery and bring back the mem- 
ory of those beloved. 

In a moment the scene before her was powerless to 
hold Marie’s thoughts. In vain did the setting sun 
cast its gold-dust and its crimson sheets to the depths 
of the river and along the meadows and over the grace- 
ful buildings strewn among the rocks ; she stood immov- 
able, gazing at the heights of the Mont Saint-Sulpice. 
The frantic hope which had led her to the Promenade 
was miraculously realized. Among the gorse and 
bracken which grew upon those heights she was certain 
that she recognized, in spite of the goatskins which 
they wore, a number of the guests at La Vivetiere, and 
among them the Gars, whose every movement be- 
came vivid to her eyes in the softened light of the sink- 
ing sun. <A few steps back of the group of men she 
distinguished her enemy, Madame du Gua. For a mo- 
ment Marie fancied that she dreamed, but her rival’s 
hatred soon proved to her that the dream was a living 
one. The attention she was giving to the least little 


216 The Chouans. 


gesture of the marquis prevented her from observing 
the care with which Madame du Gua aimed a musket 
at her. But a shot which woke the echoes of the moun- 
tains, and a ball that whistled past her warned Mae 
demoiselle de Verneuil of her rival’s determination. 
‘*She sends me her card,” thought Marie, smiling. 
Instantly a ** Qui vive?” echoing from sentry to sentry, 
from the castle to the Porte Saint-Léonard, proved to 
the Chouans the alertness of the Blues, inasmuch as the 
least accessible of their ramparts was so well guarded. 

*¢ It is she — and he,” muttered Marie to herself. 

To seek the marquis, follow his steps and overtake 
him, was a thought that flashed like lightning through her 
mind. ‘*I have no weapon!” she cried. She remem- 
bered that on leaving Paris she had flung into a trunk 
an elegant dagger formerly belonging to a sultana, 
which she had jestingly brought with her to the theatre 
of war, as some persons take note-books in which to 
jot down their travelling ideas; she was less attracted 
by the prospect of shedding blood than by the pleasure 
of wearing a pretty weapon studded with precious 
stones, and playing with a blade that was stainless. 
Three days earlier she had deeply regretted having put 
this dagger in a trunk, when to escape her enemies at 
La Viveti¢re she had thought for a moment of killing 
herself. She now returned to the house, found the 
weapon, put it in her belt, wrapped a large shawl round 
her shoulders and a black lace searf about her hair, and 
covered her head with one of those broad-brimmed hats 
distinctive of Chouans which belonged to a servant of 
the house. ‘Then, with the presence of mind which 
excited passions often give, she took the glove which 
Marche-a-Terre had given her as a safeguard, and 


The Chouans. Aw 


saying, in reply to Francine’s terrified looks, ‘* I would 
seek him in hell,” she returned to the Promenade. 

The Gars was still at the same place, but alone. By 
the direction of his telescope he seemed to be examin- 
ing with the careful attention of a commander the 
various paths across the Nancgon, the Queen’s Stair- 
case, and the road leading through the Porte Saint- 
Sulpice and round the church of that name, where it 
meets the high-road under range of the guns at the 
castle. Mademoiselle de Verneuil took one of the little 
paths made by goats and their keepers leading down 
from the Promenade, reached the Staircase, then the 
bottom of the ravine, crossed the Nancon and the sub- 
urb, and divining like a bird in the desert her right 
course among the dangerous precipices of the Mont 
Saint-Sulpice, she followed a slippery track defined upon 
the granite, and in spite of the prickly gorse and reeds 
and loose stones which hindered her, she climbed the 
steep ascent with an energy greater perhaps than that of 
a man, — the energy momentarily possessed by a woman 
under the influence of passion. 

Night overtook her as she endeavored by the failing 
moonlight to make out the path the marquis must have 
taken; an obstinate quest without reward, for the dead 
silence about Ler was suflicient proof of the withdrawal 
of the Chouans and their leader. This effort of passion 
collapsed with the hope that inspired it. Finding her- 
self alone, after nightfall, in a hostile country, she be- 
gan to reflect; and Hulot’s advice, together with the 
recollection of Madame du Gua’s attempt, made her 
tremble with fear. The stillness of the night, so deep 
in mountain regions, enabled her to hear the fall of 
every leaf even at a distance, and these slight sounds 


218 The Chouans. 


vibrated on the air as though to give a measure of the 
silence or the solitude. The wind was blowing across 
the heights and sweeping away the clouds with violence, 
producing an alternation of shadows and light, the effect 
of which increased her fears, and gave fantastic and 
terrifying semblances to the most harmless objects. 
She turned her eyes to the houses of Fougéres, where 
the domestic lights were burning like so many earthly 
stars, and she presently saw distinctly the tower of 
Papegaut. She was but a very short distance from her 
own house, but within that space was the ravine. She 
remembered the declivities which bordered the narrow 
path by which she had come, and wondered if there 
were not more risk in attempting to return to Foug¢res 
than in following out the purpose which had brought 
her. She reflected that the marquis’s glove would 
surely protect her from the Chouans, and that Madame 
du Gua was the only enemy to be really feared. With 
this idea in her mind, Marie clasped her dagger, and 
tried to find the way to a country house the roofs of 
which she had noticed as she climbed Saint-Sulpice ; but 
she walked slowly, for she suddenly became aware of 
the majestic solemnity which oppresses a solitary being 
in the night time in the midst of wild scenery, where 
lofty mountains nod their heads like assembled giants. 
The rustle of her gown, caught by the brambles, made 
her tremble more than once, and more than once she 
hastened her steps only to slacken them again as she 
thought her last hour had come. Before long matters 
assumed an aspect which the boldest men could not 
have faced without alarm, and which threw Mademoi- 
selle de Verneuil into the sort of terror that so affects 
the very springs of life that all things become excessive, 


The Chouans. 219 


weakness as well as strength. The feeblest beings will 
then do deeds of amazing power; the strongest go mad 
with fear. 

Marie heard at a short distance a number of strange 
sounds, distinct yet vague, indicative of confusion and 
tumult, fatiguing to the ear which tried to distinguish 
them. They came from the ground, which seemed to 
tremble beneath the feet of a multitude of marching 
men. A momentary clearness in the sky enabled 
her to perceive at a little distance long files of hideous 
figures waving like ears of corn and gliding like phan- 
toms; but she scarcely saw them, for darkness fell 
again, like a black curtain, and hid the fearful scene 
which seemed to her full of yellow, dazzling eyes. She 
turned hastily and ran to the top of a bank to escape 
meeting three of these horrible figures who were coming 
towards her. 

‘* Did you see it?”’ said one. 

‘*T felt a cold wind as it rushed past me,” replied a 
hoarse voice. 

‘*T smelt a damp and graveyard smell,” said the 
third. 

‘¢ Was it white?” asked the first. 

‘¢ Why should only Ae come back out of all those we 
left dead at La Pélerine?” said the second. 

‘¢Why indeed?” replied the third. ‘* Why do the 
Sacré-Coeur men have the preference? Well, at any 
rate, I’d rather die without confession than wander 
about as he does, without eating or drinking, and no 
blood in his body or flesh on his bones.” 

sAht”* 

This exclamation, or rather this fearful cry, issued 
from the group as the three Chouans pointed to the 


220 The Chouans. 


slender form and pallid face of Mademoiselle de Ver- 
neuil, who fled away with terrified rapidity without a 
sound. 

‘Here heis!” “There heis!” “Where?” “There!” 
“He’s gone!” “No!” * Yes!” “Can you see him?” 
These cries reverberated like the monotonous murmur 
of waves upon a shore. 

Mademoiselle de Verneuil walked bravely in the di- 
rection of the house she had seen, and soon came in 
sight of a number of persons, who all fled away at her 
approach with every sign of panic fear. She felt im- 
pelled to advance by a mysterious power which coerced 
her; the lightness of her body, which seemed to herself 
inexplicable, was another source of terror. These forms 
which rose in masses at her approach, as if from the 
ground on which she trod, uttered moans which were 
scarcely human. At last she reached, not without 
difficulty, a trampled garden, the hedges and fences of 
which were broken down. Stopped by a sentry, she 
showed the glove. The moon lighted her face, and the 
muzzle of the gun already pointed at her was dropped 
by the Chouan, who uttered a hoarse ery, which echoed 
through the place. She now saw large buildings, 
where a few lighted windows showed the rooms that 
were occupied, and presently reached the walls without 
further hindrance. Through the window into which 
she looked, she saw Madame du Gua and the leaders 
who were convoked at La Vivetiere. Bewildered at 
the sight, also by the conviction of her danger, she 
turned hastily to a little opening protected by iron 
bars, and saw in a long vaulted hall the marquis, alone 
and gloomy, within six feet of her. The reflection of 
the fire, before which he was sitting in a clumsy chair, 


The Chouans. 291 


lighted his face with a vacillating ruddy glow that gave 
the character of a vision to the scene. Motionless and 
trembling, the girl stood clinging to the bars, hoping, 
in the deep silence that pervaded everything, to catch 
his words if he spoke. Seeing him so depressed, dis- 
heartened, and pale, she believed herself the cause of 
his sadness. Her anger changed to pity, her pity to 
tenderness, and she suddenly knew that it was not re- 
venge alone which had brought her there. 

The marquis rose, turned his head, and stood amazed 
when he saw, as if in a cloud, Mademoiselle de Ver- 
neuil’s face; then he shook his head with a gesture of 
impatience and contempt, exclaiming: ‘* Must I forever 
see the face of that devil, even when awake?” 

This utter contempt for her forced a half-maddened 
laugh from the unhappy girl which made the young 
leader quiver. He sprang to the window, but Made- 
moiselle de Verneuil was gone. She heard the steps of 
a man behind her, which she supposed to be those of 
the marquis, and, to escape him, she knew no obstacles ; 
she would have scaled walls and flown through air; she 
would have found and followed a path to hell sooner 
than have seen again, in flaming letters on the fore- 
head of that man, ‘* I despise you,” — words which an 
inward voice sounded in her soul with the noise of a 
trumpet. 

After walking a short distance without knowing 
where she went, she stopped, conscious of a damp ex- 
halation. Alarmed by the sound of voices, she went 
down some steps which led into a cellar. As she 
reached the last of them, she stopped to listen and dis- 
cover the direction her pursuers might take. Above 
the sounds from the outside, which were somewhat 


oe The Chouans. 


loud, she could hear within the lugubrions moans of a 
human being, which added to her terror. Rays of light 
coming down the steps made her fear that this retreat 
was only too well known to her enemies, and, to escape 
them, she summoned fresh energy. Some moments 
later, after recovering her composure of mind, it was 
difficult for her to conceive by what means she had 
been able to climb a little wall, in a recess of which she 
was now hidden. She took no notice at first of the 
cramped position in which she was, but before long 
the pain of it became intolerable, for she was bending 
double under the arched opening of a vault, like the 
crouching Venus which ignorant persons attempt to 
squeeze into too narrow a niche. The wall, which 
was rather thick and built of granite, formed a low 
partition between the stairway and the cellar whence 
the groans were issuing. Presently she saw an indi- 
vidual, clothed in a goatskin, enter the cave beneath 
her, and move about, without making any sign of eager 
search. Impatient to discover if she had any chance 
of safety, Mademoiselle de Verneuil waited with anxi- 
ety till the light brought by the new-comer lighted the 
whole cave, where she could partly distinguish a form- 
Jess but living mass which was trying to reach a part of 
the wall, with violent and repeated jerks, something 
like those of a carp lying out of the water on a shore. 
A small pine torch threw its blue and hazy light into 
the cave. In spite of the gloomy poetic effects which 
Mademoiselle de Verneuil’s imagination cast about this 
vaulted chamber, which was echoing to the sounds of a 
pitiful prayer, she was obliged to admit that the place 
was nothing more than an underground kitchen, evi- 
dently long abandoned. When the formless mass was 


The Chouans. 293 


distinguishable it proved to be a short and very fat 
man, whose limbs were carefully bound before he 
had been left lying on the damp stone floor of the 
kitehen by those who had seized him. When he saw 
the new-comer approach him with a torch in one hand 
and a fagot of sticks in the other, the captive gave a 
dreadful groan, which so wrought upon the sensibilities 
of Mademoiselle de Verneuil that she forgot her own 
terror and despair and the cramped position of all her 
limbs, which were growing numb. But she made a 
great effort and remained still. The Chouan flung the 
sticks into the fireplace, after trying the strength of an 
old crane which was fastened to a long iron bar; then 
he set fire to the wood with his torch. Marie saw with 
terror that the man was the same Pille-Miche to whom 
her rival had delivered her, and whose figure, illumin- 
ated by the flame, was like that of the little boxwood 
men so grotesquely carved in Germany. The moans of 
his prisoner produced a broad grin upon features that 
were ribbed with wrinkles and tanned by the sun. 

** You see,” he said to his victim, ‘* that we Chris- 
tians keep our promises, which you don’t. That fire is 
going to thaw out your legs and tongue and hands. 
Hey! hey! I don’t see a dripping-pan to put under 
your feet; they are so fat the grease may put out the 
fire. Your house must be badly furnished if it can’t 
give its master all he wants to warm him.” 

The victim uttered a sharp cry, as if he hoped some- 
one would hear him through the ceiling and come to his 
assistance. 

‘¢ Ho! sing away, Monsieur d’Orgemont; they are 
all asleep upstairs, and Marche-a-Terre is just behind 
me; he'll shut the cellar door.” 


224 The Chouans. 


While speaking Pille-Miche was sounding with the 
butt-end of his musket the mantel-piece of the chimney, 
the tiles of the floor, the walls and the ovens, to dis- 
cover, if possible, where the miser hid his gold. This 
search was made with such adroitness that d’Orgemont 
kept silence, as if he feared to have been betrayed by 
some frightened servant; for, though he trusted his 
secrets to no one, his habits gave plenty of ground for 
logical deductions. Pille-Miche turned several times 
sharply to look at his victim, as children do when they 
try to guess, by the cons<ious expression of the comrade 
who has hidden an article, whether they are nearer or 
farther away from it. D’Orgemont pretended to be 
alarmed when the Chouan tapped the ovens, which 
sounded hollow, and seemed to wish to play upon his 
eager credulity. dust then three other Chouans rushed 
down the steps and entered the kitchen. Seeing 
Marche-a-Terre among them Pille-Miche discontinued 
his search, after casting upon d’Orgemont a look that 
conveyed the wrath of his balked coyetousness. 

“Marie Lambrequin has come to life!” cried Marche- 
a-Terre, proclaiming by his manner that all other inter- 
ests were of no account beside this great piece of news. 

“T’m not surprised,” said Pille-Miche, ‘* he took the 
sacrament so often; the good God belonged to him.” 

“Wa!ha!” observed Méne-a-Bien, “ that didn’t stand 
him in anything at his death. He had w’t received ab- 
solution before the affair at La Pelerine. He had cheap- 
ened Goguelu’s daughter, and was living in mortal sin. 
The Abbé Gudin said he’d have to roam round two 
months as a ghost before he could come to life. We 
saw him pass us,—he was pale, he was cold, he was 
thin, he smelt of the cemetery.” 


The Chouans. 225 


“¢ And his Reverence says that if.a ghost gets hold 
of a living man he can force him to be his companion,” 
said the fourth Chouan. 

The grotesque appearance of the last speaker drew 
Marche-i-Terre from the pious reflections he had been 
making on the accomplishment of this miracle of com- 
ing to life which, according to the Abbé Gudin would 
happen to every true defender of religion and the king. 

“You see, Galope-Chopine,” he said to the fourth 
man gravely, “what comes of omitting even the small- 
est duty commanded by our holy religion. It is a 
warning to us, given by Saint Anne of Auray, to be 
rigorous with ourselves for the slightest sin. Your 
cousin Pille-Miche has asked the Gars to give you the 
surveillance of Fougtres, and the Gars consents, and 
you'll be well paid— but you know with what fiour we 
bake a traitor’s bread.” 

“ Yes, Monsieur Marche-a-Terre.” 

“ And you know why I tell you that. Some say you 
like cider and gambling, but you can’t play heads or tails 
now, remember; you must belong to us only, or —” 

‘*By your leave, Monsieur Marche-a-Terre, cider 
and stakes are two good things which don’t hinder a 
man’s salvation.” 

‘¢If my cousin commits any folly,” said Pille-Miche, 
‘it will be out of ignorance.” 

“In any way he commits it, if harm comes,” said 
Marche-a-Terre, in a voice which made the arched roof 
tremble, ‘* my gun won’t miss him. You will answer 
for him to me,” he added, turning to Pille-Miche ; ‘* for 
if he does wrong I shall take it out on the thing that 
fills your goatskin.” 

‘s But, Monsieur Marche-a-Terre, with all due re- 

15 


226 The Chouans. 


spect,” said Galope-Chopine, ‘* have n’t you sometimes 
taken a counterfeit Chouan for a real one.” 

“My friend,” said Marche-a-Terre in a curt tone, 
** don’t let that happen in your case, or Ill cut you in 
two like a turnip. As to the emissaries of the Gars, 
they all carry his glove, but since that affair at La 
Viveticre the Grande Garce has added a green ribbon 
to it.” 

Pille-Miche nudged his comrade by the elbow and 
showed him d’Orgemont, who was pretending to be 
asleep ; but Pille-Miche and Marche-a-Terre both knew 
by experience that no one ever slept by the corner of 
their fire, and though the last words said to Galope- 
Chopine were almost whispered, they must have been 
heard by the victim, and the four Chouans looked at 
him fixedly, thinking perhaps that fear had deprived 
him of his senses. 

Suddenly, at a slight sign from Marche-a-Terre, Pille- 
Miche pulled off @’Orgemont’s shoes and _ stockings, 
Méne-a-Bien and Galope-Chopine seized him round the 
body and carried him to the fire. Then Marche-a-Terre 
took one of the thongs that tied the fagots and fastened 
the miser’s feet to the crane. These actions and the 
horrible celerity with which they were done brought 
cries from the victim, which became heart-rending when 
Ville-Miche gathered the burning sticks under his legs. 

‘* My friends, my good friends,” screamed d’Orge- 
mont, ** you hurt me, you kill me! I’m a Christian 
like you.” 

‘* You lie in your throat!” replied Marche-a-Terre. 
‘© Your brother denied God ; and as for you, you bought 
the abbey of Juvigny. The Abbé Gudin says we can 
roast apostates when we find them.” 


The Chouans. val 


‘* But, my brothers in God, I don’t refuse to pay.” 

‘* We gave you two weeks, and it is now two months, 
and Galope-Chopine here has n’t received the money.” 

“Have n’t you received any of it, Galope-Chopine?” 
asked the miser, in despair. 

‘* None of it, Monsieur d’Orgemont,” replied Galope- 
Chopine, frightened. 

The cries, which had sunk into groans, continuous 
as the rattle in a dying throat, now began again with 
dreadful violence. Accustomed to such scenes, the 
four Chouans looked at d’Orgemont, who was twisting 
and howling, so coolly that they seemed like travellers 
watching before an inn fire till the roast meat was done 
enough to eat. 

“I’m dying, I’m dying!” cried the victim, ‘‘ and 
you won’t get my money.” 

In spite of these agonizing cries, Pille-Miche saw that 
the fire did not yet scorch the skin; he drew the sticks 
cleverly together so as to make a slight flame. On this 
d@Orgemont called out in a quavering voice: ‘+ My 
friends, unbind me! How much do you want? A 
hundred crowns — a thousand crowns — ten thousand 
crowns — a hundred thousand crowns —I offer you two 
hundred thousand crowns!” 

The voice became so lamentable that Mademoiselle 
de Verneuil forgot her own danger and uttered an 
exclamation. 

** Who spoke?” asked Marche-4-Terre. 

The Chouans looked about them with terrified eyes. 
These men, so brave in fight, were unable to face a 
ghost. Pille-Miche alone continued to listen to the 
promises which the flames were now extracting from 
his victim. 


228 The Chouans, 


‘¢ Five hundred thousand crowns — yes, I’ll give 
them,” cried the victim. 

‘¢ Well, where are they?” answered Pille-Miche, 
tranquilly. 

‘* Under the first apple-tree— Holy Virgin! at the 
bottom of the garden to the left—you are brigands 
—thieves! Ah! I’m dying —there’s ten thousand 
francs —” 

‘*Franes! we don’t want francs,” said Marche-a- 
Terre; ‘* those Republican coins have pagan figures 
which ought n’t to pass.” 

‘¢They are not francs, they are good louis dor. But 
oh! undo me, unbind me! I’ve told you where my 
life is— my money.” 

The four Chouans looked at each other as if thinking 
which of their number they could trust sufficiently to 
disinter the money. 

The cannibal cruelty of the scene so horrified Made- 
moiselle de Verneuil that she could bear it no longer, 
Though doubtful whether the role of ghost, which her 
pale face and the Chouan superstitions evidently 
assigned to her, would carry her safely through the 
danger, she called out, courageously, ‘* Do you not fear 
God's anger? Unbind him, brutes!” 

The Chouans raised their heads and saw in the air 
above them two eyes which shone like stars, and they 
fled, terrified. Mademoiselle de Verneui) sprang into 
the kitchen, ran to @Orgemont, and pulled him so vio- 
lently from the crane that the thong broke. Then with 
the blade of her dagger she cut the cords which bound 
him. When the miser was free and on his feet, the first 
expression of his face was a painful but sardonic grin. 

‘* Appletree! yes, go to the apple-tree, you brig- 


The Chouans. 229 


ands,” he said. ‘‘ Ho, ho! this is the second time I’ve 
fooled them. They won't get a third chance at me.” 

So saying, he caught Mademoiselle de Verneuil’s 
hand, drew her under the mantel-shelf to the back of 
the hearth in a way to avoid disturbing the fire, which 
covered only a small part of it; then he touched a 
spring; the iron back was lifted, and when their ene- 
mies returned to the kitchen the heavy door of the hid- 
ing-place had already fallen noiselessly. Mademoiselle 
de Verneuil then understood the carp-like movements 
she had seen the miser making. 

“The ghost has taken the Blue with him,” cried the 
voice of Marche-a-Terre. 

The fright of the Chouans must have been great, for 
the words were followed by a stillness so profound that 
d’Orgemont and his companion could hear them mutter- 
ing to themselves: ‘‘Ave, sancta Anna Auriaca gratia 
plena, Dominus tecum,” ete. 

‘* They are praying, the fools!” cried d’Orgemont. 

‘¢ Hush! are not you afraid they will discover us?” 
said Mademoiselle de Verneuil, checking her companion. 

The old man’s laugh dissipated her fears. 

‘* That iron back is set in a wall of granite two feet 
thick,” he said. ‘* We can hear them, but they can’t 
hear us.” 

Then he took the hand of his preserver and placed it 
near a crevice through which a current of fresh air was 
blowing. She then perceived that the opening was 
made in the shaft of the chimney. 

“ Ai! ai!” cried d’Orgemont. ‘The devil! how 
my legs smart!” 

The Chouans, haying finished their prayer, departed, 
and the old miser again caught the hand of his com- 


230 The Chouans. 


panion and helped her to climb some narrow winding 
steps cut in the granite wall. When they had mounted 
some twenty of these steps the gleam of a lamp dimly 
lighted their heads. ‘The miser stopped, turned to his 
companion, examined her face as if it were a bank note 
he was doubtful about cashing, and heaved a heavy sigh. 

“By bringing you here,” he said, after a moment’s 
silence, ‘*I have paid you in full for the service you 
did me; I don’t see why I should give you —” 

‘* Monsieur, I ask nothing of you,” she said. 

These words, and also, perhaps, the disdainful expres- 
sion on the beautiful face, reassured the old man, for 
he answered, not without a sigh, ‘* Ah! if you take it 
that way, I have gone too far not to continue on.” 

He politely assisted Marie to climb a few more steps 
rather strangely constructed, and half willingly, half 
reluctantly, ushered her into a small closet about four 
feet square, lighted by a lamp hanging from the ceiling. 
It was easy to see that the miser had made preparations 
to spend more than one day in this retreat if the events 
of the civil war compelled him to hide himself. 

‘¢ Don’t brush against that wall, you might whiten 
yourself,” said d’Orgemont suddenly, as he hurriedly 
put his hand between the girl’s shaw] and the stones 
which seemed to have been lately whitewashed. The 
old man’s action produced quite another effect from 
that he had intended. Marie looked about her and 
saw in one corner a sort of projection, the shape of 
which forced from her a cry of terror, for she fancied it 
was that of a human being standing erect and mortared 
into the wall. D’Orgemont made a violent sign to her 
to hold her tongue, and his little eyes of a porcelain 
blue showed as much fear as those of his companion. 


The Chouans. 231 


‘Fool! do you think I murdered him? It is the 
body of my brother,” and the old man gave a lugubrious 
sigh. ‘He was the first sworn-in priest; and this was 
the only asylum where he was safe against the fury of 
the Chouans and the other priests. Ile was my elder 
brother, and he alone had the patience to teach me the 
decimal calculus. Oh! he was a good priest! He was 
economical and laid by money. It is four years since 
he died; I don’t know what was the matter with him; 
perhaps it was that priests are so in the habit of kneel- 
ing down to pray that he couldn't get accustomed to 
standing upright here as Ido. I walled him up there ; 
they'd have dug him up elsewhere. Some day perhaps 
Ican put him in holy ground, as he used to call it, — 
poor man, he only took the oath out of fear.” 

A tear rolled from the hard eyes of the little old 
man, whose rusty wig suddenly seemed less hideous 
to the girl, and she turned her eyes respectfully away 
from his distress. But, in spite of these tender remi- 
niscences, d’Orgemont kept on saying, ‘* Don’t go near 
the wall, you might —” 

His eyes never ceased to watch hers, hoping thus to 
prevent her from examining too closely the walls of 
the closet, where the close air was scarcely enough to 
inflate the lungs. Marie succeeded, however, in getting 
a sufficiently good look in spite of her Argus, and 
she came to the conclusion that the strange protuber- 
ances in the walls were neither more nor less than 
sacks of coin which the miser had placed there and 
plastered up. 

Old d@Orgemont was now in a state of almost gro- 
tesque bewilderment. The pain in his legs, the terror 
he felt at seeing a human being in the midst of his 


252 The Chouans. 


hoards, could be read in every wrinkle of his face, and 
yet at the same time his eyes expressed, with unac- 
customed fire, a lively emotion excited in him by the 
presence of his liberator, whose white and rosy check 
invited kisses, and whose velvety black eye sent waves 
of blood to his heart, so hot that he was much in doubt 
whether they were signs of life or of death. 

** Are you married?” he asked, in a trembling voice. 

‘* No,” she said, smiling. 

‘¢T have a little something,” he continued, heaving a 
sigh, ** though Iam not so rich as people think for, A 
young girl like you must love diamonds, trinkets, car- 
riages, money. I’ve got all that to give — after my 
death. Hey! if you will—” 

The old man’s eyes were so shrewd and betrayed 
such calculation in this ephemeral love that Mademoi- 
selle de Verneuil, as she shook her head in sign of 
refusal, felt that his desire to marry her was solely 
to bury his secret in another himself. 

** Money!” she said, with a look of scorn which 
made him satisfied and angry both; ‘* money is nothing 
to me. You would be three times as rich as you are, 
if you had all the gold that I have refused—” she 
stopped suddenly. 

‘* Don’t go near that wall, or —’ 

‘* But I hear a voice,” she said; ‘it echoes through 
a voice that is more to me than all your 





? 





that wall, 
riches.” 
3efore the miser could stop her Marie had Jaid her 
hand on a small colored engraving of Louis XV. on 
horseback ; to her amazement it turned, and she saw, 
in a room beneath her, the Marquis de Montauran, who 
was loading a musket. The opening, hidden by a little 


lat 


The Chouans. So 


panel on which the picture was gummed, seemed to 
form some ornament in the ceiling of the adjoining 
chamber, which, no doubt, was the bedroom of the 
royalist general. D’ Orgemont closed the opening with 
much precaution, and looked at the girl sternly. 

**Don’t say a word if you love your life. You 
haven't thrown your grappling-iron on a worthless 
building. Do you know that the Marquis de Mon- 
tauran is worth more than one hundred thousand 
francs a year from lands which have not yet been 
confiscated? And I read in the Primidi de I 'Ille-et- 
Vilaine a decree of the Consuls putting an end to con- 
fiscation. Ha! ha! you’ll think the Gars a prettier 
fellow than ever, won’t you? Your eyes are shining 
like two new louis d'or.” 

Mademoiselle de Verneuil’s face was, indeed, keenly 
excited when she heard that well-known voice so near 
her. Since she had been standing there, erect, in the 
midst as it were of a silver mine, the spring of her 
mind, held down by these strange events, recovered 
itself. She seemed to have formed some sinister reso- 
lution and to perceive a means of carrying it out. 

‘*'There is no return from such contempt,” she was 
saying to herself; ‘‘ and if he cannot love me, I will 
kill him — no other woman shall have him.” 

‘© No, abbé, no!” cried the young chief, in a loud 
voice which was heard through the panel, ‘*it must 
be. .s0.” 

‘* Monsieur le marquis,” replied the Abbé Gudin, 
haughtily; ‘*you will scandalize all Brittany if you 
give that ball at Saint James. It is preaching, not 
dancing, which will rouse our villagers. Take guns, 
not fiddles.” 


234 The Chouans. 


‘¢ Abbé, you have sense enough to know that it is 
not in a general assembly of our partisans that I can 
learn to know these people, or judge of what I may be 
able to undertake with them. <A supper is better for 
examining faces than all the spying in the world, of 
which, by the bye, I have a horror; they can be made 
to talk with glasses in their hand.” 

Marie quivered, as she listened, and conceived the 
idea of going to the ball and there avenging herself. 

‘**Do you take me for an idiot with your sermon 
against dancing?” continued Montauran. ‘* Wouldn't 
you yourself dance a reel if it would restore your 
order under its new name of Fathers of the Faith? 
Don’t you know that Bretons come away from the mass 
and go to dancing? Are you aware that Messieurs 
Hyde de Neuville and d’Andigné had a conference, five 
days ago. with the First Consul, on the question of 
restoring his Majesty Louis XVIII.? Ah, monsieur, 
the princes are deceived as to the true state of France. 
The devotions which uphold them are solely those of 
rank. Abbé, if I have set my feet in blood, at least 
I will not go into it to my middle without full knowledge 
of what I do. I am devoted to the king, but not to four 
hot-heads, not to a man crippled with debt like Rifoél, 
not to ‘ chauffeurs,’ not to —” 

** Say frankly, monsieur, not to abbés who force con- 
tributions on the highway to carry on the war,” retorted 
the Abbé Gudin. 

‘*Why should I not say it?” replied the marquis, 
sharply; ‘*and I'll say, further, that the great and 
heroic days of La Vendée are over.” 

‘* Monsieur le marquis, we can perform miracles 
Without you.” 


The Chouans. 935 


“Yes, like that of Marie Lambrequin, whom I hear 
you have brought to life,” said the marquis, smiling. 
‘*Come, come, let us have no rancor, abbé. I know 
that you run all risks and would shoot a Blue as readily 
as you say an oremus. God willing, I bope to make 
you assist with a mitre on your head at the king’s 
coronation.” 

This last remark must have had some magic power, 
for the click of a musket was heard as the abbé ex- 
claimed, ‘‘ I have fifty cartridges in my pocket, mon- 
sieur le marquis, and my life is the king’s.” 

‘¢ He’s a debtor of mine,” whispered the usurer to 
Marie. ‘‘I don’t mean the five or six hundred crowns 
he has borrowed, but a debt of blood which I hope to 
make him pay. He can never suffer as much evil as I 
wish him, the damned Jesuit! He swore the death of 
my brother, and raised the country against him. Why? 
Because the poor man was afraid of the new laws.” 
Then, after applying his ear to another part of his 
hiding-place, he added, ‘+ They are all decamping, those 
brigands. Isuppose they are going to do some other 
miracle elsewhere. I only hope they won’t bid me 
good-by as they did the last time, by setting fire to my 
house.” 

After the lapse of about half an hour, during which 
time the usurer and Mademoiselle de Verneuil looked 
at each other as if they were studying a picture, the 
coarse, gruff voice of Galope-Chopine was heard saying, 
in a muffled tone: ‘‘There’s no longer any danger, 
Monsieur d'Orgemont. But this time, you must allow 
that I have earned my thirty crowns.” 

‘My dear,” said the miser to Marie, “swear to 
shut your eyes.” 


236 The Uhouans. 


Mademoiselle de Verneuil placed one hand over her 
eyelids ; but for greater security d’Orgemont blew out 
the lamp, took his liberator by the hand. and helped her 
to make seven or eight steps along a difficult passage. 
At the end of some minutes he gently removed her 
hand, and she found herself in the very room the Mar- 
quis de Montauran had just quitted, and which was, in 
fuct, the miser’s own bedroom. 

‘* My dear girl,’’ said the old man, ‘** you can safely 
go now. Don’t look about you that way. I dare say 
you have no money with you. Here are ten crowns; 
they are alittle shaved, but they’ll pass. When you leave 
the garden you will see a path which leads straight to 
the town, or, as they say now, the district. But the 
Chouans will be at Fougeres, and it is to be presumed 
that you can’t get back there at once. You may want 
some safe place to hide in. Remember what I say to 
you, but don’t make use of it unless in some great 
emergency. You will see on the road which leads to 
Nid-aux-Crocs through the Val de Gibarry. a farm-house 
belonging to Cibot — otherwise called Galope-Chopine, 
Go in, and say to his wife: ‘ Good-day, Becaniere,’ 
and Barbette will hide you. If Galope-Chopine dis- 
covers you he will either take you for the ghost, if it is 
dark, or ten crowns will master him if it is light. 
Adieu, our account is squared. But if you choose,” he 
added, waving his hand about him, ‘* all this is yours.” 

Mademoiselle de Verneuil gave the strange old man 
a look of thanks, and suecceded in extracting a sigh 
from him, expressing a variety of emotions, 

*¢ You will of course return me my ten crowns; and 
please remark that I ask no interest. You can pay 
them to my credit with Maitre Vatrat, the notary at 


The Chouans. 25t 


Fougéres, who would draw our marriage contract if you 
consented to be mine. Adieu.” 

“ Adicu,” she said, smiling and kissing her hand. 

‘¢ Tf you ever want money,” he called after her, “I'll 
lend it to you at five per cent; yes, only five — did I 
say five? — why, she’s gone! That girl looks to me 
like a good one; nevertheless, I’ll change the secret 
opening of my chimney.” 

Then he took a twelve-pound loaf and a bam, and re- 
turned to his hiding place. 


As Mademoiselle de Verneuil walked through the 
country she seemed to breathe a new life. The fresh- 
ness of the night revived her after the fiery experience 
of the last few hours. She tried to follow the path 
explained to her by d@’Orgemont, but the darkness be- 
came so dense after the moon had gone down that she 
was forced to walk hap-hazard. blindly. Presently the 
fear of falling down some precipice seized her and saved 
her life, for she stopped suddenly, fancying the ground 
would disappear before her if she made another step. 
A cool breeze lifting her hair, the murmur of the river, 
and her instinct all combined to warn her that she was 
probably on the verge of the Saint-Sulpice rocks. She 
slipped her arm round a tree and waited for the dawn 
with keen anxiety, for she heard a noise of arms and 
horses and human voices ; she was grateful to the dark- 
ness which saved her from the Chouans, who were evi- 
dently, as the miser had said, surrounding Fougéres. 

Like fires lit at night as signals of liberty, a few 
gleams, faintly crimsoned, began to show upon the 
summits, while the bases of the mountains still retained 
the bluish tints which contrasted with the rosy clouds 


238 The Chouans. 


that were floating in the valley. Soon a ruby disk rose 
slowly on the horizon and the skies greeted it; the 
varied landscape, the bell-tower of Saint-Léonard, the 
rocks, the meadows buried in shadow, all insensibly re- 
appeared, and the trees on the summits were defined 
against the skies in the rising glow. ‘The sun freed 
itself with a graceful spring from the ribbons of flame 
and ochre and sapphire. Its vivid light took level lines 
from hill to hill and flowed into the vales, The dusk 
dispersed, day mastered Nature. A sharp breeze 
crisped the air, the birds sang, life wakened every- 
where. But the girl had hardly time to cast her eyes 
over the whole of this wondrous landscape before, by 
a phenomenon not infrequent in these cool regions, the 
mists spread themselves in sheets, filled the valleys, 
and rose to the tops of the mountains, burying the great 
ralley beneath a mantle of snow, Mademoiselle de 
Verneuil fancied for a moment she saw a mer de glace, 
like those of the Alps. Then the vaporous atmosphere 
rolled like the waves of ocean, lifted impenetrable bil- 
lows which softly swayed, undulated, and were violently 
whirled, catching from the sun’s rays a vivid rosy tint, 
and showing here and there in their depths the trans- 
parencies of a lake of molten silver, Suddenly the 
north wind swept this phantasmagoric scene and scat- 
tered the mists which laid a dew full of oxygen on the 
meadows. 

Mademoiselle de Verneuil was now able to distinguish 
a dark mass of men on the rocks of Fougéres. Seven 
or eight hundred Chouans were running like ants 
through the suburb of Saint-Sulpice. The sleeping 
town would certainly have been overpowered in spite of 
its fortifications and its old gray towers, if Hulot had 


The Chouans. 239 


not been alert. A battery, concealed on a height at the 
farther end of the basin formed by the ramparts, replied 
to the first fire of the Chouans by taking them diago- 
nally on the road to the castle. The balls swept the 
road. Then a company of Blues made a sortie from 
the Saint-Sulpice gate, profited by the surprise of the 
royalists to form in line upon the high-road, and poured 
a murderous fire upon them. The Chouans made no 
attempt to resist, seeing that the ramparts of the castle 
were covered with soldiers, and that the guns of the 
fortress sufficiently protected the Republican advance. 
Meantime, however, other Chouans, masters of the 
little valley of the Nangon, had swarmed up the rocks 
and reached the Promenade, which was soon covered 
with goatskins, giving it to Marie’s eyes the appear- 
ance of a thatched roof, brown with age. At the same 
moment loud reports were heard from the part of the 
town which overlooks the valley of Couésnon.  Evi- 
dently, Fougéres was attacked on all sides and com- 
pletely surrounded. Flames rising on the western side 
of the rock showed that the Chouans were setting fire 
to the suburbs; but these soon ceased, and a column of 
black smoke which succeeded them showed that the fire 
was extinguished. Brown and white clouds again hid 
the scene from Mademoiselle de Verneuil, but they were 
clouds of smoke from the fire and powder, which the 
wind dispersed. The Republican commander, as soon 
as he saw his first orders admirably executed, changed 
the direction of his battery so as to sweep, successively, 
the valley of the Nancon, the Queen’s Staircase, and 
the base of the rock of Fougéres. Two guns posted 
at the gate of Saint-Léonard scattered the ant-hill of 
Chouans who had seized that position, and the national 


240 The Chouans. 


guard of the town, rushing in haste to the square before 
the Church, succeeded in dislodging the last enemy, 
The fight lasted only half an hour, and cost the Blues 
a hundred men. The Chouans, beaten on all sides, 
retreated under orders from the Gars, whose bold 
attempt failed (although he did not know this) in con- 
sequence of the massacre at La Viveticre, which had 
brought Hulot secretly and in all haste to Fougeres. 
The artillery had arrived only that evening, and the 
news had not reached Montauran ; otherwise, he would 
certainly have abandoned an enterprise which, if it 
failed, could only have bad results. As soon as he 
heard the guns the marquis knew it would be madness 
to continue, out of mere pride, a surprise which had 
missed fire. Therefore, not to lose men uscelessly, he 
sent at once to all points of the attack, ordering an im- 
mediate retreat. The commandant, seeing his adver- 
sary on the rocks of Saint-Sulpice surrounded by a 
council of men, endeavored to pour a volley upon him ; 
but the spot was cleverly selected, and the young leader 
was out of danger in a moment. IIulot now changed 
parts with his opponent and became the aggressor, At 
the first sign of the Gars’ intention, the company sta- 
tioned under the walls of the castle were ordered to cut 
off the Chouans’ retreat by seizing the upper outlet of 
the valley of the Nancon. 

Notwithstanding her desire for revenge, Mademoiselle 
de Verneuil’s sympathies were with the men commanded 
by her lover. and she turned hastily to see if the other 
end of the valley were clear for them; but the Blues, 
conquerors no doubt on the opposite side of Fou- 
gtres, were returning from the valley of Couésnon and 
taking possession of the Nid-aux-Croes and that portion 


The Chouans. 241 


of the Saint-Sulpice rocks which overhang the lower 
end of the valley of the Nancgon. ‘The Chouans, thus 
hemined in to the narrow fields of the gorge, seemed in 
danger of perishing to the last man, so cleverly and 
sagaciously were the commandant’s measures taken. 
But Iulot’s cannon were powerless at these two points ; 
and here, the town of Fougcres being quite safe, began 
one of those desperate struggles which denoted the 
character of Chouan warfare. 

Mademoiselle de Verneuil now comprehended the 
presence of the masses of men she had seen as she left 
the town, the meeting of the leaders at d’Orgemont’s 
house, and all the other events of the night, wondering 
how she herself had escaped so many dangers. The 
attack, prompted by desperation, interested her so 
keenly that she stood motionless, watching the living 
pictures as they presented themselves to her sight. 
Presently the struggle at the foot of the mountain had 
a deeper interest for her. Seeing the Blues almost 
masters of the Chouans, the marquis and his friends 
rushed into the valley of the Nangon to support their 
men. The rocks were now covered with straggling 
groups of furious combatants deciding the question of 
life or death on a ground and with weapons that were 
more favorable to the Goatskins. Slowly this moving 
arena widened. The Chouans, recovering themselves, 
gained the rocks, thanks to the shrubs and bushes 
which grew here and there among them. For a moment 
Mademoiselle de Verneuil felt alarmed as she saw, 
rather late, her enemies swarming over the summit and 
defending the dangerous paths by which alone she could 
descend. Every issue on the mountain was occupied 
by one or other of the two parties; afraid of encoun- 

1G 


249 The Chouans. 


tering them she left the tree behind which she had been 
sheltering, and began to run in the direction of the farm 
which dOrgemont had mentioned to her. After run- 
ning some time on the slope of Saint-Sulpice which over- 
looks the valley of Couésnon she saw a cow-shed in the 
distance, and thought it must belong to the house of 
Galope-Chopine, who had doubtless left his wife at 
home and alone during the fight. Mademoiselle de 
Verneuil hoped to be able to pass a few hours in this 
retreat until it was possible for her to return to Fou- 
geres without danger. According to ali appearance 
Hulot was to triumph. The Chouans were retreating 
so rapidly that she heard firing all about her, and the 
fear of being shot made her hasten to the cottage, the 
chimney of which was her landmark. The path she 
was following ended at a sort of shed covered with a 
furze-roof, supported by four stout trees with the bark 
still on them. A imud wall formed the back of this 
shed, under which were a cider-mill, a flail to thresh 
buckwheat, and several agricultural implements. She 
stopped before one of the posts, unwilling to cross the 
dirty bog which formed a sort of courtyard to the 
house which, in her Parisian ignorance, she had taken 
for a stable. 

The cabin, protected from the north wind by an emi- 
nence towering above the roof, which rested against it, 
was not without a poetry of its own; for the tender 
shoots of elms, heather, and various rock-flowers 
wreathed it with garlands. A rustic staircase, con- 
structed between the shed and the house, enabled the 
inhabitants to go to the top of the rock and breathe 
a purer air. On the left, the eminence sloped abruptly 
down, giving to view a series of fields, the first of which 





The Chouans. 243 


belonged no doubt to this farm. These fields were like 
bowers, separated by banks which were planted with 
trees. The road which led to them was barred by the 
trunk of an old, half-rotten tree, —a Breton method of 
inclosure the name of which may furnish, further on, a 
digression which will complete the characterization of 
this region. Between the stairway cut in the schist 
rock and the path closed by this old tree, in front of 
the marsh and beneath the overhanging rock, several 
granite blocks roughly hewn, and piled one upon the 
other, formed the four corners of the cottage and held up 
the planks, cobblestones, and pitch amalgam of which the 
walls were made. ‘The fact that one half of the roof 
was covered with furze instead of thatch, and the other 
with shingles or bits of board cut into the form of slates, 
showed that the building was in two parts; one half, 
with a broken hurdle for a door, served as a stable, the 
other half was the dwelling of the owner. Though this 
hut owed to the neighborhood of the town a few im- 
provements which were wholly absent from such build- 
ings that were five or six miles further off, it showed 
plainly enough the instability of domestic life and 
habits to which the wars and customs of feudality 
had reduced the serf; even to this day many of the 
peasants of those parts call a seignorial chateau, ‘* The 
Dwelling.” 

While examining the place, with an astonishment we 
ean readily conceive, Mademoiselle de Verneuil noticed 
here and there in the filth of the courtyard a few bits 
of granite so placed as to form stepping-stones to the 
house. Hearing the sound of musketry that was evi- 
dently coming nearer, she jumped from stone to stone, 
as if crossing a rivulet, to ask shelter. The house was 


244 The Chouans. 


closed by a door opening in two parts; the lower one 
of wood, heavy and massive, the upper one a shutter 
which served as a window. In many of the smaller 
towns of France the shops have the same type of door 
though far more decorated, the lower half possessing a 
eall-bell. The door in question opened with a wooden 
latch worthy of the golden age, and the upper part was 
never closed except at night, for it was the only 
opening througb which daylight could enter the room. 
There was, to be sure, a clumsy window, but the glass 
was thick like the bottom of a bottle, and the lead 
which held the panes in place took so much room that 
the opening seemed intended to intercept the light 
rather than admit it. As soon as Mademoiselle de 
Verneuil had turned the creaking hinges of the lower 
door she smelt an intolerable ammoniacal odor, and 
saw that the beasts in the stable had kicked through 
the inner partition which separated the stable from the 
dwelling. The interior of the farmhouse, for such it 
was, did not belie its exterior. 

Mademoiselle de Verneuil was asking herself how it 
was possible for human beings to live in such habitual 
filth, when a ragged little boy about eight or nine 
years old suddenly presented his fresh and rosy face, 
with a pair of fat cheeks, lively eyes, ivory teeth, and 
amass of fair hair, which fell in curls upon his half- 
naked shoulders. His limbs were vigorous, and his at- 
titude had the charm of that amazement and naive 
curiosity which widens a child’s eyes. The little fellow 
was a picture of beauty. 

‘Where is your mother?” said Marie, in a gentle 
voice, stooping to kiss him between the eyes. 

After receiving her kiss the child slipped away like 


The Chouans. 245 


an eel, and disappeared behind a muck-heap which was 
piled at the top of a mound between the path and the 
house; for, like many Breton farmers who have a sys- 
tem of agriculture that is all their own, Galope-Chopine 
put his manure in an elevated spot, so that by the time 
it was wanted for use the rains had deprived it of all its 
virtue. Alone for a few minutes, Marie had time to 
make an inventory. The room in which she waited for 
Barbette was the whole house. The most obvious and 
sumptuous object was a vast fireplace with a mantle- 
shelf of blue granite. The etymology of that word was 
shown by a strip of green serge, edged with a pale-green 
ribbon, cut in scallops, which covered and overhung the 
whole shelf, on which stood a colored plaster cast of the 
Holy Virgin. On the pedestal of the statuette were two 
lines of a religious poem very popular in Brittany : — 


“Tam the mother of God, 
Protectress of the sod.” 


Behind the Virgin a hideous image, daubed with red 
and blue under pretence of painting, represented Saint- 
Labre. A green serge bed of the shape called “tomb,” 
a clumsy cradle, a spinning-wheel, common chairs, and 
a carved chest on which lay utensils, were about the 
whole of Galope-Chopine’s domestic possessions. In 
front of the window stood a chestnut table flanked by 
two benches of the same wood, to which the sombre 
light coming through the thick panes gave the tone of 
mahogany. An immense cask of cider, under the bung 
of which Mademoiselle de Verneuil noticed a pool of 
yellow mud, which had decomposed the flooring, al- 
though it was made of scraps of granite conglomerated 
in clay, proved that the master of the house had a right 


246 The Chouans. 


to his Chouan name. and that the pints galloped down 
either his own throat or that of his friends. Two enor- 
mous jugs full of cider stood on the table. Marie’s at- 
tention, caught at first by the innumerable spider’s-webs 
which hung from the roof, was fixing itself on these 
pitchers when the noise of fighting, growing more and 
more distinct, impelled her to find a hiding-place, with- 
out waiting for the woman of the house, who, however, 
appeared at that moment. 

‘‘Good-morning, Becaniere,” said Marie, restraining 
a smile at the appearance of a person who bore some 
resemblance to the heads which architects attach to 
window-casings. 

‘¢Ha! you come from d’Orgemont?” answered 
Barbette, in a tone that was far from cordial. 

‘¢ Yes, where can you hide me? for the Chouans are 
close by —” 

‘¢'There,” replied Barbette, as much amazed at the 
beauty as by the strange apparel of a being she could 
hardly believe to be of her own sex, — ‘there, in the 
priest’s hiding-place.” 

She took her to the head of the bed, and was putting 
her behind it, when they were both startled by the 
noise of a man springing into the courtyard. Barbette 
had scarcely time to drop the curtain of the bed and 
fold it about the girl before she was face to face with 
a fugitive Chouan. 

‘* Where can I hide, old woman? I am the Comte 
de Bauvan,” said the new-comer. 

Mademoiselle de Verneuil quivered as she recognized 
the voice of the belated guest, whose words, still a 
secret to her, brought about the catastrophe of La 
Vivetiere. 


The Chouans. 247 


‘* Alas! monseigneur, don’t you see, I have no 
place? What I’d better do is to keep outside and 
watch that no one gets in. If the Blues come, I'll let 
you know. If I stay here, and they find me with you, 
they ‘ll burn my house down.” 

Barbette left the hut, feeling herself incapable of 
settling the interests of two enemies who, in virtue of 
the double réle her husband was playing, had an equal 
right to her hiding-place. 

‘“‘T’ve only two shots left,” said the count, in 
despair. ‘*It will be very unlucky if those fellows 
turn back now and take a fancy to look ander this 
bed.” 

He placed his gun gently against the headboard 
behind which Marie was standing among the folds of 
the green serge, and stooped to see if there was room 
for him under the bed. He would infallibly have seen 
her feet, but she, rendered desperate by her danger, 
seized his gun, jumped quickly into the room, and 
threatened him. The count broke into a peal of laugh- 
ter when he caught sight of her, for, in order to hide 
herself, Marie had taken off her broad-brimmed Chouan 
hat, and her hair was escaping, in heavy curls, from 
the lace scarf which she had worn on leaving home. 

* Don't laugh, monsieur le comte; you are my pris- 
oner. If you make the least movement, you shall know 
what an offended woman is capable of doing.” 

As the count and Marie stood looking at each other 
with differing emotions, confused voices were heard 
without among the rocks, calling out, ‘*Save the 
Gars! spread out, spread out, save the Gars!” 

Barbette’s voice, calling to her boy, was heard above 
the tumult with very different sensations by the two 


-_ 


248 The Chouans. 


enemies, to whom Barbette was really speaking instead 
of to her son. 

‘Don’t you see the Blues?” she cried, sharply. 
‘*Come here, you little scamp, or I shall be after 
you. Do you want to be shot? Come, hide, quick!” 

While these things took place rapidly a Blue jumped 
into the marshy courtyard. 

‘** Beau-Pied!” exclaimed Mademoiselle de Verneuil. 

Beau-Pied, hearing her voice, rushed into the cottage, 
and aimed at the count. 

** Aristocrat!” he cried, “don’t stir, or Ill demolish 
you in a wink, like the Bastille.” 

‘¢ Monsieur Beau-Pied,’ said Mademoiselle de Ver- 
neuil, in a persuasive voice, ‘you will be answerable 
to me for this prisoner. Do as you like with him 
now, but you must return him to me safe and sound 
at Fougetres.” 

‘¢ Fnough, madame!” 

‘* Ts the road to Fougeres clear?” 

‘¢ Yes, it’s safe enough — unless the Chouans come 
to life.” 

Mademoiselle de Verneuil picked up the count’s gun 
gayly, and smiled satirically as she said to her prisoner, 
** Adieu, monsicur le comte, au revoir!” 

Then she darted down the path, having replaced the 
broad hat upon her head. 

‘*T have learned too late,’ said the count, not to 
joke about the virtue of a woman who has none.” 

*¢ Aristocrat!” cried Bean-Pied, sternly, “if you 
don’t want me to send you to your e?-/evant paradise, 
you will not say a word against that beautiful lady.” 

Mademoiselle de Verneuil returned to Fougeres by 
the paths which connects the rocks of Saint-Sulpice 


The Chouans. 949 


with the Nid-aux-Crocs. When she reached the latter 
height and had threaded the winding way cut in its 
rough granite, she stopped to admire the pretty valley 
of the Nangon, lately so turbulent and now so tranquil. 
Seen from that point, the vale was like a street of ver- 
dure. Mademoiselle de Verneuil re-entered the town by 
the Porte Saint-Léonard. The inhabitants, still uneasy 
about the fighting, which, judging by the distant firing, 
was still going on, were waiting the return of the 
National Guard, to judge of their losses. Seeing the 
girl in her strange costume, her hair dishevelled, a gun 
in her hand, her shawl and gown whitened against the 
walls, soiled with mud and wet with dew, the curiosity of 
the people was keenly excited, — all the more because 
the power, beauty, and singularity of this young Paris- 
ian had been the subject of much discussion. 

Francine, full of dreadful fears, had waited for her 
mistress throughout the night, and when she saw her 
she began to speak; but Marie, with a kindly gesture, 
silenced her. 

‘*T am not dead, my child,” she said. “Ah!” she 
added, after a pause, ‘** I wanted emotions when I left 
Paris, and I have had them!” 

Francine asked if she should get her some food, 
observing that she must be in great need of it. 

‘* No, no; a bath, a bath!” cried Mademoiselle de 
Verneuil. ‘I must dress at once.” 

Francine was not a little surprised when her mistress 
required her to unpack the most elegant of the dresses 
she had brought with her. Having bathed and break- 
fasted, Marie made her toilet with all the minute care 
which a woman gives to that important act when she 
expects to meet the eyes of her lover in a ball-room. 


yal The Chouans. 


Francine could not explain to herself the mocking 
gayety of her mistress. It was not the joy of love, —a 
woman never mistakes that; it was rather an expres- 
sion of concentrated maliciousness, which to Francine’s 
mind boded evil. Marie herself drew the curtains of 
the window from which the glorious panorama could be 
seen, then she moved the sofa to the chimney corner, 
turning it so that the light would fall becomingly on her 
face; then she told Francine to fetch flowers, that the 
room might have a festive air; and when they came 
she herself directed their arrangement in a picturesque 
manner. Giving a last glance of satisfaction at these 
various preparations she sent Francine to the command- 
ant with a request that he would bring her prisoner to 
her; then she lay down luxuriously on a sofa, partly to 
rest, and partly to throw herself into an attitude of grace- 
ful weakness, the power of which is irresistible in certain 
women. <A soft languor, the seductive pose of her feet 
just seen below the drapery of her gown, the plastic 
ease of her body, the curving of the throat, — all, even 
the droop of her slender fingers as they hung from the 
pillow like the buds of a bunch of jasmine, combined 
with her eyes to produce seduction. She burned certain 
perfumes to fill the air with those subtle emanations 
which affect men’s fibres powerfully, and often prepare 
the way for conquests which women seek to make with- 
out seeming to desire them. Presently the heavy step 
of the old soldier resounded in the adjoining room. 

‘Well, commandant, where is my captive?” she 
said. 

‘*T have just ordered a picket of twelve men to shoot 
him, being taken with arms in his hand.” 

‘“Why have you disposed of my prisoner?” she 


The Chouans. ool 


asked. ‘* Listen to me, commandant; surely, if I can 
trust your face, the death of a man after a fight is no 
particular satisfaction to you. Well, then, give my 
Chouan a reprieve, for which I will be responsible, and 
Iet me see him. IJassure you that aristocrat has become 
essential to me, and he can be made to further the suc- 
cess of our plans. Besides, to shoot a mere amateur in 
Chouannerie would be as absurd as to fire on a balloon 
when a pinprick would disinflate it. For heaven’s sake 
leave cruelty to the aristocracy. Republicans ought to 
be generous. Would n’t you and yours have forgiven the 
victims of Quiberon? Come, send your twelve men to 
patrol the town, and dine with me and bring the pris- 
oner. There is only an hour of daylight left, and don’t 
you see,” she added smiling, ‘‘ that if you are too late, 
my toilet will have lost its effect?” 

“But, mademoiselle,” said the commandant, amazed. 

‘* Well, what? But I know what you mean. Don’t 
be anxious; the count shall not escape. Sooner or 
later that big butterfly will burn himself in your fire.” 

The commandant shrugged his shoulders slightly, 
with the air of a man who is forced to obey, whether he 
will or no, the commands of a pretty woman; and he 
returned in about half an hour, followed by the Comte 
de Bauvan. 

Mademoiselle de Verneuil feigned surprise and seemed 
confused that the count should see her in such a negli- 
gent attitude ; then, after reading in his eyes that her 
first effect was produced, she rose and busied herself 
about her guests with well-bred courtesy. There was 
nothing studied or forced in her motions, smiles, be- 
havior, or voice, nothing that betrayed premeditation 
or purpose. All was harmonious; no part was over- 


bd 


52 The Chouans. 


acted; an observer could not have supposed that she 
affected the manners of a society in which she had 
not lived. When the Royalist and the Republican were 
seated she looked sternly at the count. He, on his part, 
knew women sufficiently well to feel certain that the 
offence he had committed against this woman was equiv- 
alent to a sentence of death. But in spite of this con- 
viction, and without seeming either gay or gloomy, he 
had the air of a man who did not take such serious 
results into consideration ; in fact, he really thought it 
ridiculous to fear death in presence of a pretty woman. 
Marie’s stern manner roused ideas in his mind. 

‘Who knows,” thought he, ‘* whether a count’s 
coronet would n’t please her as well as that of her lost 
marquis? Montauran is as lean as a nail, while 1—” 
and he looked himself over with an air of satisfaction. 
‘* At any rate I should save my head.” 

These diplomatic reflections were wasted. The passion 
the count proposed to feign for Mademoiselle de Ver- 
neuil became a violent caprice, which the dangerous 
creature did her best to heighten. 

“Monsieur le comte,” she said, ‘‘ you are my pris- 
oner, and I have the right to dispose of you. Your 
execution cannot take place without my consent, and 
I have too much curiosity to let them shoot you at 
present.” 

‘* And suppose I am obstinate enough to keep 
silence?” he replied gayly. 

“With an honest woman, perhaps, but with a woman 
of the town, no, no, monsieur le comte, impossible!” 
These words, full of bitter sarcasm, were hissed, as Sully 
says, in speaking of the Duchesse de Beaufort, from so 
sharp a beak that the count, amazed, merely looked at 


The Chouans. 958 


his antagonist. “But,” she continued, with a scornful 
glance, ** not to contradict you, if I am a creature of 
that kind I will act like one. Here is your gun,” and 
she offered him his weapon with a mocking air. 

‘¢ On the honor of a gentleman, mademoiselle —’ 

‘¢ Ah!” she said, interrupting him, “I have had 
enough of the honor of gentlemen. It was on the faith 
of that that I went to La Vivetiere. Your leader had 
sworn to me that I and my escort should be safe there.” 

‘*What an infamy!” cried Hulot, contracting his 
brows. 

‘¢ The fault lies with monsieur le comte,” said Marie, 
addressing Hulot. “I have no doubt the Gars meant 
to keep his word, but this gentleman told some calumny 
about me which confirmed those that Charette’s mistress 
had already invented —” 

** Mademoiselle,” said the count, much troubled, 
‘¢with my head under the axe I would swear that I 
said nothing but the truth.” 

‘¢In saying what?” 

‘*'That you were the—” 

*¢ Say the word, mistress of —” 

‘“¢The Marquis de Lenoncourt, the present duke, a 
friend of mine,” replied the count. : 

‘* Now I can let you go to execution,” she said, 
without seeming at all agitated by the outspoken reply 
of the count, who was amazed at the real or pretended 
indifference with which she heard his statement. 
‘¢ However,’ she added, laughing, ‘‘you have not 
wronged me more than that friend of whom you sup- 
pose me to have been the— Fie! monsieur le 
comte; surely you used to visit my father, the Due 
de Verneuil? Yes? well then—” 


> 


254 The Chouans. 


Evidently considering Hulot one too many for the 
confidence she was about to make, Mademoiselle de 
Verneuil motioned the count to her side, and said a few 
words in his ear. Monsieur de Bauvan gave a low 
ejaculation of surprise and looked with bewilderment 
at Marie, who completed the effect of her words by 
leaning against the chimney in the artless and innocent 
attitude of a child. 

** Mademoiselle,” cried the count, ‘*I entreat your 
forgiveness, unworthy as [ am of it.” 

‘*T have nothing to forgive,” she replied. “You 
have no more ground for repentance than you had for 
the insolent supposition you proclaimed at La Vivetiere. 
But this is a matter beyond your comprehension. Only, 
remember this, monsicur le comte, the daughter of the 
Duc de Verneuil has too generous a spirit not to take a 
lively interest in your fate.” 

‘+ Even after I have insulted you?’ 
with a sort of regret. 

**Some are placed so high that insult cannot touch 
them. Monsicur le comte, —I am one of them.” 

As she said the words, the girl assumed an air of 
pride and nobility which impressed the prisoner and 
made the whole of this strange intrigue much less 
clear to Hulot than the old soldier had thought. it. 
He twirled his moustache and looked uneasily at 
Mademoiselle de Verneuil, who made him a sign, as 
if to say she was still carrying out her plan. 

‘¢ Now,” continued Marie, after a pause, “let us 
dismiss these matters. Francine, my dear, bring 
lights.” 

She adroitly led the conversation to the times which 
had now, within a few short years, become the * aucien 


> said the count, 


The Chouans. bb 


régime.” She brought back that period to the count’s 
mind by the liveliness of her remarks and sketches, 
and gave him so many opportunities to display his wit, 
by cleverly throwing repartees in his way, that he ended 
by thinking he had never been so charming; and that 
idea having rejuvenated him, he endeavored to inspire 
this seductive young woman with his own good opin- 
ion of himself. The malicious creature practised, in re- 
turn, every art of her coquetry upon him, all the more 
adroitly because it was mere play to her. Sometimes 
she let him think he was making rapid progress, and 
then, as if surprised at the sentiment she was feeling, 
she showed a sudden coolness which charmed him, and 
served to increase imperceptibly his impromptu passion. 
She was like a fisherman who lifts his line from time 
to time to see if the fish is biting. The poor count 
allowed himself to be deceived by the innocent air with 
which she accepted two or three neatly turned compli- 
ments. Emigration, Brittany, the Republic, and the 
Chouans were far indeed from his thoughts. Hulot sat 
erect and silent as the god Thermes. Tis want of 
education made him quite incapable of taking part in a 
conversation of this kind; he supposed that the talking 
pair were very witty, but his efforts at comprehension 
were limited to discovering whether they were plotting 
against the Republic in covert language. 

** Montauran,” the count was saying. “has birth and 
breeding, he is a charming fellow, but he does n't 
understand gallantry. He is too young to have seen 
Versailles. His education is deficient. Instead of diplo- 
matically defaming, he strikes a blow. He may be 
able to love violently, but he will never have that fine 
flower of breeding in his gallantry which distinguished 


256 The Chouans. 


Lauzun, Adhémar, Coigny, and so many others! He 
has n't the winning art of saying those pretty nothings 
to women which, after all, they like better than bursts 
of passion, which soon weary them. Yes, though he 
has undoubtedly had many love-affairs, he has neither 
the grace nor the ease that should belong to them.” 

“T have noticed that myself,” said Marie. 

** Ah!” thought the count, “there’s an inflection in 
her voice, and a look in her eye which shows me plainly 
I shall soon be on terms with her; and faith! to get 
her, Ill believe all she wants me to.” 

He offered her his hand, for dinner was now an- 
nounced. Mademoiselle de Verneuil did the honors 
with a politeness and tact which could only have been 
acquired by the life and training of a court. 

“ Leave us,” she whispered to Hulot as they left the 
table. “ You will only frighten him; whereas, if Iam 
alone with him I shall soon find out all I want to know ; 
he has reached the point where a man tells me every- 
thing he thinks, and sees through my eyes only.” 

“But afterwards?” said Hulot, evidently intending 
to claim the prisoner. 

“ Afterwards, he is to be free—free as air,” she 
replied. 

** But he was taken with arms in his hand.” 

— © No,” she said, making one of those sophistical jokes 
with which women parry unanswerable arguments, “I 
had disarmed him. Count,” she said, turning back to 
him as Hulot departed. “TI have just obtained your 
liberty, but — nothing for nothing,” she added, laugh- 
ing, with her head on one side as if to interrogate him. 

“Ask all, even my name and my honor,” he cried, 

intoxicated. ‘‘I lay them at your feet.” 


The Chouans. pisge 


He advanced to seize her hand, trying to make her 
take his passion for gratitude; but Mademoiselle de 
Verneuil was not a woman to be thus misled. So, smil- 
ing in a way to give some hope to this new lover, she 
drew back a few steps and said: ** You might make 
me regret my confidence.” 

‘The imagination of a young girl is more rapid than 
that of a woman,” he answered, laughing. 

‘¢ A young girl has more to lose than a woman.” 

‘“*True; those who carry a treasure ought to be 
distrustful.” 

“Tet us quit such conventional language,” she said, 
“and talk seriously. You are to give a ball at Saint- 
James. I hear that your headquarters, arsenals, and 
base of supplies are there. When is the ball to be?” 

“To-morrow evening.” 

** You will not be surprised if a slandered woman 
desires, with a woman’s obstinacy, to obtain a public 
reparation for the insults offered to her, in presence 
of those who witnessed them. I shall go to your ball. 
J ask you to give me your protection from the moment 
JT enter the room until I leave it. J ask nothing more 
than a promise,” she added, as he laid his hand on his 
heart. ‘I abhor oaths; they are too like precautions. 
Tell me only that you engage to protect my person 
from all dangers, criminal or shameful. Promise to 
repair the wrong you did me, by openly acknowledging 
that Lam the daughter of the Duc de Verneuil; but say 
nothing of the trials I have borne in being illegitimate, 
— this will pay your debt to me. Ha! two hours’ at- 
tendance on a woman in a ball-room is not so dear a 
ransom for your life, is it? You are not worth a ducat 
more.’ Her smile took the insult from her words. 

li 


258 The Chouans. 


‘s What do you ask for the gun?” said the count, 
laughing. 

“Oh! more than I do for you.” 

“What is it?” 

‘* Secrecy. Believe me, my dear count, a woman is 
never fathomed except by a woman. Iam certain that 
if you say one word of this, I shall be murdered on my 
way to that ball. Yesterday I had warning enough. 
Yes, that woman is quick to act. Ah! I implore 
you,” she said, ** contrive that no harm shall come to 
me at the ball.” 

“You will be there under my protection,” said the 
count, proudly. “ But,” he added, with a doubtful air, 
‘are you coming for the sake of Montauran?” 

“You wish to know more thanI know myself,” she 
answered, laughing. ‘Now go,” she added, after a 
pause. ‘I will take you to the gate of the town myself, 
for this seems to me a cannibal warfare.” 

“Then you do feel some interest in me?” exclaimed 
the count. ‘Ah! mademoiselle, permit me to hope 
that you will not be insensible to my friendship — for 
that sentiment must content me, must it not?” he 
added with a conceited air. 

‘s Ah! diviner!” she said, putting on the gay ex- 
pression @ woman assumes when she makes an avowal 
which compromises neither her dignity nor her secret 
sentiments. 

Then, having slipped on a pelisse, she accompanied 
him as far as the Nid-aux-Croes. When they reached 
the end of the path she said, “ Monsieur, be absolutely 
silent on all this; even to the marquis;” and she laid 
her finger on both lips. 

The count, emboldened by so much kindness, took 


The Chouans. 259 


her hand; she let him do so as though it were a great 
favor, and he kissed it tenderly. 

‘*Oh! mademoiselle,” he cried, on knowing himself 
beyond all danger, “rely on me for life, for death. 
Though I owe you a gratitude equal to that I owe my 
mother, it will be very difficult to restrain my feelings 
to mere respect.” 

He sprang into the narrow pathway. After watch- 
ing him till he reached the rocks of Saint-Sulpice, Marie 
nodded her head in sign of satisfaction, saying to her- 
self in a low voice: “That fat fellow has given me 
more than his life for his life! I can make him my 
creature at a very little cost! Creature or creator, 
that’s all the difference there is between one man and 
another — ” 

She did not finish her thought, but with a look of des- 
pair she turned and re-entered the Porte Saint-Léonard, 
where Hulot and Corentin were awaiting her. 

‘‘Two more days,’ she cried, “and then—” She 
stopped, observing that they were not alone —‘‘ he 
shall fall under your guns,” she whispered to Hulot. 

The commandant recoiled a step and looked with a 
jeering contempt, impossible to render, at the woman 
whose features and expression gave no sign whatever 
of relenting. There is one thing remarkable about 
women: they never reason about their blameworthy 
actions, — feeling carries them off their feet; even in 
their dissimulation there is an clement of sincerity ; and 
in women alone crime may exist without baseness, for 
it often happens that they do not know how it came 
about that they committed it. 

‘¢T am going to Saint-James, to a ball the Chouans 
give to-morrow night, and-—” 


260 The Chouans. 


‘¢ But,” said Corentin, interrupting her, ‘‘ that is 
fifteen miles distant; had I not better accompany 
you?” 

“You think a great deal too much of something I 
never think of at all,” she replied, “ and that is yourself.” 

Marie’s contempt for Corentin was extremely pleas- 
ing to Hulot, who made his well-known grimace as 
she turned away in the direction of her own house. 
Corentin followed her with his eyes, letting his face 
express a consciousness of the fatal power he knew 
he could exercise over the charming creature, by work- 
ing upon the passions which sooner or later, he believed, 
would give her to him. 

As soon as Mademoiselle de Verneuil reached home 
she began to deliberate on her ball-dress. Francine, 
accustomed to obey without understanding her mistress’s 
motives, opened the trunks, and suggested a Greek 
costume. The Republican fashions of those days were 
all Greek in style. Marie chose one which could be 
put in a box that was easy to carry. 

“Francine, my dear, I am going on an excursion into 
the country ; do you want to go with me, or will you 
stay behind?” 

‘*Stay behind!” exclaimed Francine; ‘* then who 
would dress you? ” 

“Where have you put that glove I gave you this 
morning?” 

*¢ Here it is.” 

‘*Sew this green ribbon to it, and, above all, take 
plenty of money.” Then noticing that Francine was 
taking out a number of the new Republican coins, she 
cried out, Not those; they would get us murdered: 
Send Jérémie to Corentin — no, stay, the wretch would 


The Chouans. 261 


follow me —send to the commandant; ask him from 
me for some six-franc crowns.” 

With the feminine sagacity which takes in the small- 
est detail, she thought of everything, While Francine 
was completing the arrangements for this extraordinary 
trip, Marie practised the art of imitating an owl, and 
so far succeeded in rivalling Marche-a-Terre that the 
illusion was a good one. At midnight she left Fou- 
géres by the gate of Saint-Léonard, took the little path 
to Nid-aux-Croes, and started, followed by Francine, to 
cross the Val de Gibarry with a firm step, under the 
impulse of that strong will which gives to the body and 
its bearing such an expression of force. To leave a 
ball-room with sufficient care to avoid a cold is an im- 
portant affair to the health of a woman; but let her 
have a passion in her heart, and her body becomes ada- 
mant. Such an enterprise as Marie had now under- 
taken would have floated in a bold man’s mind fora 
long time; but Mademoiselle de Verneuil had no sooner 
thought of it than its dangers became to her attractions. 

‘* You are starting without asking God to bless 
you,” said Francine, turning to look at the tower of 
Saint-Léonard. 

The pious Breton stopped, clasped her hands, and 
said an “ Ave” to Saint Anne of Auray, imploring her 
to bless their expedition ; during which time her mis- 
tress waited pensively, looking first at the artless atti- 
tude of her maid who was praying fervently, and then 
at the effects of the vaporous moonlight as it glided 
among the traceries of the church building, giving to 
the granite all the delicacy of filagree. The pair soon 
reached the hut of Galope-Chopine. Light as their 
steps were they roused one of those huge watch-dogs 


262 The Chouans. 


on whose fidelity the Bretons rely, putting no fastening 
to their doors but a simple latch. The dog ran to the 
strangers, and his bark became so threatening that they 
were forced to retreat a few steps and call for help. 
But no one came. Mademoiselle de Verneuil then 
gave the owl’s cry, and instantly the rusty hinges of 
the door made a creaking sound, and Galope-Chopine, 
who had risen hastily, put out his head. 

‘¢T wish to go to Saint-James,” said Marie, showing 
the Gars’ glove. ‘ Monsicur le Comte de Bauvan told me 
that you would take me there and protect me on the way. 
Therefore be good enough to get us two riding donkeys, 
and make yourself ready to go with us. Time is pre- 
cious, for if we do not get to Saint-James before to- 
morrow night I can neither see the ball nor the Gars.” 

Galope-Chopine, completely bewildered, took the 
glove and turned it over and over, after lighting a 
pitch candle about a finger thick and the color of gin- 
gerbread. This article of consumption, imported into 
Brittany from the North, was only one more proof to 
the eyes in this strange country of the utter ignorance 
of all commercial principles, even the commonest. 
After seeing the green ribbon, staring at Mademoiselle 
de Verneuil, scratching his ear, and drinking a beaker 
of cider (having first offered a glass to the beautiful 
lady), Galope-Chopine left her seated before the table 
and went to fetch the required donkeys. 

The violet gleam cast by the pitch candle was not 
powerful enough to counteract the fitful moonlight, 
which touched the dark floor and furniture of the 
smoke-blackened cottage with luminous points. ‘The 
little boy had lifted his pretty head inquisitively, and 
above it two cows were poking their rosy muzzles and 


The Chouans. 263 


brilliant eyes through the holes in the stable wall. The 
big dog, whose countenance was by no means the least 
intelligent of the family, seemed to be examining the 
strangers with as much curiosity as the little boy. A 
painter would have stopped to admire the night effects 
of this scene, but Marie, not wishing to enter into con- 
versation with Barbette, who sat up in bed and began 
to show signs of amazement at recognizing her, left the 
hovel to escape its fetid air and the questions of its mis- 
tress. She ran quickly up the stone staircase behind 
the cottage, admiring the vast details of the landscape, 
the aspect of which underwent as many changes as 
spectators made steps either upward to the summits or 
downward to the valleys. The moonlight was now en- 
veloping like a luminous mist the valley of Couésnon. 
Certainly a woman whose heart was burdened with a 
despised love would be sensitive to the melancholy 
which that soft brilliancy inspires in the soul, by the 
weird appearances it gives to objects and the colors 
with which it tints the streams. 

The silence was presently broken by the braying of a 
donkey. Marie went quickly back to the hut, and the 
party started. Galope-Chopine, armed with a double- 
barrelled gun, wore a long goatskin, which gave him 
something the look of Robinson Crusoe. His blotched 
face, seamed with wrinkles, was scarcely visible under 
the broad-brimmed hat which the Breton peasants still 
retain as a tradition of the olden time; proud to have 
won, after their servitude, the right to wear the former 
ornament of seignorial heads. This nocturnal caravan, 
protected by a guide whose clothing, attitudes, and 
person had something patriarchal about them, bore no 
little resemblance to the Flight into Egypt as we see it 


204 The Chouans. 


represented by the sombre brush of Rembrandt. Ga- 
lope-Chopine carefully avoided the main-road and guided 
the two women through the labyrinth of by-ways which 
intersect Brittany. 

Madeinoiselle de Verneuil then understood the Chouan 
warfare. In threading these complicated paths, she 
could better appreciate the condition of a country which 
when she saw it from an elevation had seemed to her 
so charming, but into which it was necessary to pene- 
trate before the dangers and inextricable difliculties of 
it could be understood. Round each field, and from 
time immemorial, the peasants have piled mud walls, 
about six feet high, and prismatic in shape; on the top 
of which grow chestnuts, oaks and beeches. The walls 
thus planted are called hedges (Norman hedges) and 
the long branches of the trees sweeping over the path- 
ways arch them. Sunken between these walls (made of 
a clay soil) the paths are like the covered ways of a for- 
tification, and where the granite rock, which in these 
regions comes to the surface of the ground, does not 
make a sort of rugged natural pavement. they become 
so impracticable that the smallest vehicles can only be 
drawn over them by two pairs of oxen or Breton horses, 
which are small but usually vigorous. ‘Vhese by-ways 
are so swampy that foot-passengers have gradually by 
long usage made other paths beside them on the hedge- 
banks which are called ‘ rotes;” and these begin and 
end with each division into fields. In order to cross 
from one ficld to another if is necessary to climb the 
clay banks by means of steps which are often very 
slippery after a rain. 

Travellers have many other obstacles to encounter in 
these intricate paths. Thus surrounded, each field is 


The Chouans. 265 


closed by what is called in the West an échalier. That 
is a trunk or stout branch of a tree, one end of 
which, being pierced, is fitted to an upright post which 
serves as a pivot on which it turns. One end of 
the échalier projects far enough beyond the pivot to 
hold a weight, and this singular rustic gate, the post 
of which rests in a hole made in the bank, is so 
easy to work that a child can handle it. Sometimes 
the peasants economize the stone which forms the 
weight by lengthening the trunk or branch beyond the 
pivot. This method of enclosure varies with the genius 
of cach proprietor. Sometimes it consists of a single 
trunk or branch, both ends of which are imbedded in 
the bank. In other places it looks like a gate, and is 
made of several slim branches placed at regular dis- 
tances like the steps of a ladder lying horizontally. 
The form turns, like the échulier, on a pivot. These 
** hedges” and échaliers give the region the appearance 
of a huge chess-board, each field forming a square, 
perfectly isolated from the rest, closed like a fortress 
and protected by ramparts. The gate, which is very 
easy to defend, is a dangerous spot for assailants. The 
Breton peasant thinks he improves his fallow land by 
encouraging the growth of gorse, a shrub so well treated 
in these regions that it soon attains the height of a man. 
This delusion, worthy of a population which puts its 
manure on the highest spot in the courtyard, has cov- 
ered the soil to a proportion of one fourth with masses 
of gorse, in the midst of which a thousand men might 
ambush. Also there is scarcely a field without a num- 
ber of old apple-trees, the fruit being used for cider, 
which kill the vegetation wherever their branches cover 
the ground. Now, if the reader will reflect on the small 


266 The Chouans. 


extent of open ground within these hedges and large 
trees whose hungry roots impoverish the soil, he will 
have an idea of the cultivation and general character 
of the region through which Mademoiselle de Verneuil 
Was now passing. 

It is difficult to say whether the object of these 
inclosures is to avoid all disputes of possession, or 
whether the custom is a lazy one of keeping the cattle 
from straying, without the trouble of watching them ; 
at any rate such formidable barriers are permanent 
obstacles, which make these regions impenetrable and 
ordinary warfare impossible. ‘There les the whole 
secret of the Chouan war. Mademoiselle de Verneuil 
saw plainly the necessity the Republic was under to 
strangle the disaffection by means of the police and by 
negotiation, rather than by a useless employment of 
military force. What could be done, in fact, with a 
people wise enough to despise the possession of towns, 
and hold to that of an open country already furnished 
with indestructible fortifications? Surely, nothing ex- 
cept negotiate ; especially as the whole active strength 
of these deluded peasants lay in asingle able and enter- 
prising leader. She admired the genius of the minister 
who, sitting in his study, had been able to grasp the 
true way of procuring peace. She thought she under- 
stood the considerations which act on the minds of 
men powerful enough to take a bird’s-eye view of an 
empire; men whose actions, criminal in the eyes of the 
mnasses, are the outcome of a vast and _ intelligent 
thought. ‘There is in these terrible souls some myste- 
rious blending of the force of fate and that of destiny, 
some prescience which suddenly elevates them above 
their fellows; the masses seek them for a time in 


The Chouans. 20T 


their own ranks, then they raise their eyes and see 
these lordly souls above them. 

Such reflections as these seemed to Mademoiselle de 
Verneuil to justify and even to ennoble her thoughts of 
vengeance ; this travail of her soul and its expectations 
gave her vigor enough to bear the unusual fatigues of 
this strange journey. At the end of each property 
Galope-Chopine made the women dismount from their 
donkeys and climb the obstructions; then, mounting 
again, they made their way through the boggy paths 
which already felt the approach of winter. The combi- 
nation of tall trees, sunken paths, and inclosed places, 
kept the soil in a state of humidity which wrapped the 
travellers in a mantle of ice. However, after much 
wearisome fatigue, they managed to reach the woods of 
Marignay by sunrise. The journey then became less 
difficult, and led by a broad footway through the forest. 
The arch formed by the branches, and the great size of 
the trees protected the travellers from the weather, and 
the many difficulties of the first half of their way did not 
recur. 

They had hardly gone a couple of miles through the 
woods before they heard a confused noise of distant 
voices and the tinkling of a bell, the silvery tones of 
which did not have the monotonous sound given by the 
movements of cattle. Galope-Chopine listened with great 
attention, as he walked along, to this melody ; presently 
a puff of wind brought several chanted words to his ear, 
which seemed to affect him powerfully, for he suddenly 
turned the wearied donkeys into a by-path, which led 
away from Saint-James, paying no attention to the 
strong remonstrances of Mademoiselle de Verneuil, 
whose fears were increased by the darkness of the 


268 The Chouans. 


forest path along which their guide now led them. To 
right and left were enormous blocks of granite, laid one 
upon the other, of whimsical shape. Across them huge 
roots had glided, like monstrous serpents, seeking from 
afar the juicy nourishment enjoyed by a few beeches. 
The two sides of the road resembled the subterranean 
grottos that are famous for stalactites. Immense fes- 
toons of stone, where the darkling verdure of ivy and 
holly allied itself to the green-gray patches of the 
moss and lichen, hid the precipices and the openings 
into several caves. When the three travellers had gone 
a few steps through a very narrow path a most surpris- 
ing spectacle suddenly unfolded itself to Mademoiselle 
de Verneuil’s eyes, and made her understand the obsti- 
nacy of her Chouan guide. 

A semi-circular basin of granite blocks formed an 
amphitheatre, on the rough tiers of which rose tall 
black pines and yellowing chestnuts, one above the 
other, like a vast circus, where the wintry sun shed its 
pale colors rather than pourcd its light, and autumn had 
spread her tawny carpet of fallen leaves. About the 
middle of this hall, which seemed to have had the 
deluge for its architect, stood three enormous Druid 
stones, —a vast altar, on which was raised an old 
ehurch-banner. About a hundred men, kneeling with 
bared heads, were praying fervently in this natural 
enclosure, where a priest, assisted by two other eccle- 
siastics, was saying mass. The poverty of the sacer- 
dotal vestments, the feeble voice of the priest, which 
echoed like a murmur through the open space, the 





praying men filled with conviction and united by one 
and the same sentiment, the bare cross, the wild and 
barren temple, the dawning day, gave the primitive 


The Chouans. 269 


character of the earlier times of Christianity to the 
scene. Mademoiselle de Verneuil was struck with ad- 
miration. ‘This mass said in the depths of the woods, 
this worship driven back by persecution to its sources, 
the poesy of ancient times revived in the midst of this 
weird and romantic nature, these armed and unarmed 
Chouans, cruel and praying, men yet children, all these 
things resembled nothing that she had ever seen or 
yet imagined. She remembered admiring in her child- 
hood the pomps of the Roman church so pleasing to 
the senses; but she knew nothing of God alone, his 
cross on the altar, his altar the earth. In place of 
the carved foliage which wreaths the columns of a 
Gothic cathedral, the autumnal trees upheld the sky ; 
instead of a thousand colors thrown through stained 
glass windows, the sun could barely slide its ruddy rays 
and dull reflections on altar, priest, and people. The 
men present were a fact, a reality, and not a system, — 
it was a prayer, not a religion. But human passions, 
the momentary repression of which gave harmony to 
the picture, soon reappeared on this mysterious scene 
and gave it powerful vitality. 

As Mademoiselle de Verneuil reached the spot the 
reading of the gospel was just over. She recognized 
in the officiating priest, not without fear, the Abbé 
Gudin, and she hastily slipped behind a granite block, 
drawing Francine after her. She was, however, unable 
to move Galope-Chopine from the place he had chosen, 
and from which he intended to share in the benefits of 
the ceremony ; but she noticed the nature of the ground 
around her, and hoped to be able to evade the danger 
by getting away, when the service was over, before the 
priests. Through a large fissure of the rock that hid 


270 The Chouans. 


her, she saw the Abbé Gudin mounting a block of 
granite which served him as a pulpit, where he began 
his sermon with the words, — 

‘In nomine Patris et Lilii, et Spiritus Sancti.” 

All present made the sign of the cross. 

‘¢ My dear friends,” continued the abbé, ‘let us 
pray in the first place for the souls of the dead, —Jean 
Cochegrue, Nicolas Laferté, Joseph Brouet, Francois 
Parquoi, Sulpice Coupiau, all of this parish, and dead 
of wounds received in the fight on Mont Pelerine and 
at the siege of Fougtres. De profundis,” ete. 

The psalm was recited, accerding to custom, by the 
congregation and the priests, taking verses alternately 
with a fervor which augured well for the success of the 
sermon. When it was over the abbé continued, in a 
voice which became gradually louder and louder, for the 
former Jesuit was not unaware that vehemence of de- 
livery was in itself a powerful argument with which to 
persuade his semi-savage hearers. 

‘+ These defenders of our God, Christians, have set you 
an example of duty,” he said. ‘* Are you not ashamed 
of what will be said of you in paradise? If it were not 
for these blessed ones, who have just been received with 
open arms by all the saints, our Lord might have 
thought that your parish is inhabited by Mahometans! 
— Do you know, men, what is said of you in Brittany 
and in the king’s presence? What! you don’t know? 
Then I shall tell you. They say: ‘ Behold, the Blues 
have cast down altars, and killed priests, and murdered 
the king and queen; they mean to make the parish folk 
of Brittany Blues like themselves, and send them to 
fight in foreign lands, away from their churches, where 
they run the risk of dying without confession and going 


The Chouans. OTT. 


eternally to hell; and yet the gars of Marignay, whose 
churches they have burned, stand still with folded arms! 
Oh! oh! this Republic of damned souls has sold the 
property of God and that of the nobles at auction ; it has 
shared the proceeds with the Blues ; it has decreed, in or- 
der to gorge itself with money as it does with blood, that 
a crown shall be only worth three francs instead of six ; 
and yet the gars of Marignay have n’t seized their weap- 
ons and driven the Blues from Brittany! Ha! para- 
dise will be closed to them! they can never save their 
souls!’ That’s what they say of you in the king’s 
presence! It is your own salvation, Christians, which 
is at stake. Your souls are to be saved by fighting for 
religion and the king. Saint Anne of Auray herself ap- 
peared to me yesterday at half-past two o’clock ; and 
she said to me these very words which I now repeat 
to you: ‘Are you a priest of Marignay?’ ‘ Yes, 
madame, ready to serve you.’ ‘I am Saint Anne of 
Auray, aunt of God, after the manner of Brittany. I 
have come to bid you warn the people of Marignay that 
they must not hope for salvation if they do not take 
arms. You are to refuse them absolution for their sins 
unless they serve God. Bless their guns, and _ those 
who gain absolution will never miss the Blues, because 
their guns are sanctified.’ She disappeared, leaving an 
odor of incense behind her. I marked the spot. It is 
under the oak of the Patte d’Oie; just where that beau- 
tiful wooden Virgin was placed by the rector of Saint- 
James; to whom the crippled mother of Pierre Leroi 
(otherwise called Marche-a-Terre) came to pray, and was 
cured of all her pains, because of her son’s good deeds. 
You see her there in the midst of you, and you know 
that she walks without assistance. It was a miracle — 


2T2 The Chouans. 


a miracle intended, like the resurrection of Marie Lam- 
brequin to prove to you that God will never forsake the 
Breton cause so long as the people fight for his servants 
and for the king. Therefore, my dear brothers, if you 
wish to save your souls and show yourselves defenders 
of God and the king, you will obey all the orders of the 
man whom God has sent to us, and whom we call THE 
Gars. Then indeed, you will no longer be Mahome- 
tans; you will rank with all the gars of Brittany under 
the flag of God. You can take from the pockets of the 
Blues the money they have stolen from you; for, if the 
fields have to go uncultivated while you are making 
war, God and the king will deliver to you the spoils of 
your enemies. Shall it be said, Christians, that the 
gars of Marignay are behind the gars of the Morbihan, 
the gars of Saint-Georges, of Vitré, of Antrain, who 
are all faithful to God and the king? Will you let 
them get all the spoils? Will you stand like here- 
tics, with your arms folded, when other Bretons are 
saving their souls and saving their king? ‘Forsake 
all, and follow me,’ says the Gospel. Have we not for- 
saken our tithes, we priests? And you, I say to you, 
forsake all for this holy war! You shall be like the 
Maccabees. All will be forgiven you. You will find the 
priests and curates in your midst, and you willconquer ! 
Pay attention to these words, Christians,” he said, as 
he ended; ‘+ for this day only have we the power to 
bless your guns. Those who do not take advantage of 
the Saint’s favor will not find her merciful; she will 
not forgive them or listen to them as she did in the last 
war.” 

This appeal, enforced by the power of a loud voice 
and by many gestures, the vehemence of which bathed 


The Chouans. ois 


the orator in perspiration, produced, apparently, very 
little effect. ‘The peasants stood motionless, their eyes 
on the speaker, like statues; but Mademoiselle de Ver- 
neuil presently noticed that this universal attitude was 
the result of a spell cast by the abbé on the crowd. He 
had, like great actors, held his audience as one man 
by addressing their passions and self-interests. He had 
absolved excesses before committal, and broken the 
only bonds which held these boorish men to the prac- 
tice of religious and social precepts. He had prosti- 
tuted his sacred office to political interests ; but it must 
be said that, in these times of revolution, every man 
made a weapon of whatever he possessed for the benefit 
of his party, and the pacific cross of Jesus became as 
much an instrument of war as the peasant’s plough- 
share. 

Seeing no one with whom to advise, Mademoiselle de 
Verneuil turned to look for Francine, and was not a 
little astonished to see that she shared in the rapt en- 
thusiasm, and was devoutly saying her chaplet over some 
beads which Galope-Chopine had probably given her 
during the sermon. 

“Trancine,” she said, in a low voice, “are you afraid 
of being a Mahometan?” 

‘*Oh! mademoiselle,” replied the girl, “just see 
Pierre’s mother; she is walking!” 

Francine’s whole attitude showed such deep convic- 
tion that Marie understood at once the secret of the 
homily, the influence of the clergy over the rural masses, 
and the tremendous effect of the scene which was now 
beginning. 

The peasants advanced one by one and knelt down, 
presenting their guns to the preacher, who laid them 

18 


274 The Chouans. 


upon the altar. Galope-Chopine offered his old duck- 
shooter. ‘The three priests sang the hymn * Veni, 
Creator,” while the celebrant wrapped the instruments 
of death in bluish clouds of incense, waving the smoke 
into shapes that appeared to interlace one another. 
When the breeze had dispersed the vapor the guns were 
returned in due order. Each man received his own on 
his knees from the hands of the priests, who recited a 
Latin prayer as they returned them. After the men 
had regained their places, the profound enthusiasm of 
the congregation, mute until then, broke forth and 
resounded in a formidable manner. 

** Domine salvum fue regem!” was the prayer which 
the preacher intoned in an echoing voice, and was then 
sung vehemently by the people. The cry had some- 
thing savage and warlike in it. The two notes of the 
word regem, readily interpreted by the peasants, were 
taken with such energy that Mademoiselle de Verneuil’s 
thoughts reverted almost tenderly to the exiled Bour- 
bon family. These recollections awakened those of her 
past life. Her memory revived the fétes of a court now 
dispersed, in which she had once a share. The face of 
the marquis entered her reyery. With the natural mo- 
bility of a woman’s mind she forgot the scene before 
her and reverted to her plans of vengeance, which might 
cost her her life or come to nought under the influence 
of alook. Seeing a branch of holly the trivial thought 
crossed her mind that in this decisive moment, when 
she wished to appear in all her beauty at the ball, she 
had no decoration for her hair: and she gathered a tuft 
of the prickly leaves and shining berries with the idea 
of wearing them. 

* Ho! hol my gun may miss fire on a duck, but ona 


The Chouans. oie 


Blue, never!” cried Galope-Chopine, nodding his head 
in sign of satisfaction. 

Marie examined her guide’s face attentively, and 
found it of the type of those she had just seen. The 
old Chouan had evidently no more ideas than a child. 
A naive joy wrinkled his cheeks and forehead as he 
looked at his gun; but a pious conviction cast upon 
that expression of his joy a tinge of fanaticism, which 
brought into his face for an instant the signs of the 
vices of civilization. 

Presently they reached a village, or rather a collec- 
tion of huts like that of Galope-Chopine, where the rest 
of the congregation arrived before Mademoiselle de 
Verneuil had finished the milk and bread and butter 
which formed the meal. This irregular company was 
led by the abbé, who held in his hand a rough cross 
draped with a flag, followed by a gars, who was proudly 
carrying the parish banner. Mademoiselle de Verneuil 
was compelled to mingle with this detachment, which was 
on its way, like herself, to Saint-James, and would 
naturally protect her from all danger as soon as 
Galope-Chopine informed them that the Gars glove 
was in her possession, provided always that the abbé 
did not see her. 

Towards sunset the three travellers arrived safely at 
Saint-James, a little town which owes its name to the 
English, by whom it was built in the fourteenth century, 
during their occupation of Brittany. Before entering it 
Mademoiselle de Verneuil was witness of a strange 
scene of this strange war, to which, however, she gave 
little attention ; she feared to be recognized by some of 
her enemies, and this dread hastened her steps. Five 
or six thousand peasants were camping in a field. Their 


276 The Chouans. 


clothing was not in any degree warlike; in fact, this 
tumultuous assembly resembled that of a great fair. 
Some attention was needed to even observe that these 
Bretons were armed, for their goatskins were so made 
as to hide their guns, and the weapons that were chiefly 
visible were the scythes with which some of the men 
had armed themselves while awaiting the distribution of 
muskets. Some were eating and drinking, others were 
fighting and quarrelling in loud tones, but the greater 
part were sleeping on the ground. An officer in a red 
uniform attracted Mademoiselle de Verneuil’s attention, 
and she supposed him to belong to the English service. 
At a little distance two other officers seemed to be try- 
ing to teach a few Chouans, more intelligent than the 
rest, to handle two cannon, which apparently formed 
the whole artillery of the royalist army. Shouts hailed 
the coming of the gars of Marignay, who were recognized 
by their banner. Under cover of the tumult which the 
new-comers and the priests excited in the camp, Made- 
moiselle de Verneuil was able to make her way past it 
and into the town without danger. She stopped ata 
plain-looking inn not far from the building where the 
ball was to be given. The town was so full of strangers 
that she could only obtain one miserable room. When 
she was safely in it Galope-Chopine brought Francine 
the box which contained the ball dress, and having 
done so he stood stock-still in an attitude of indescrib- 
able irresolution. At any other time Mademoiselle de 
Verneuil would have been much amused to see what a 
Breton peasant can be like when he leaves his native 
parish ; but now she broke the charm by opening her 
purse and producing four crowns of six francs each, 
which she gave him. 


The Chouans. 217 


‘¢ Take it,” she said, ‘and if you wish to oblige me, 
you will go straight back to Fougeres without entering 
the camp or drinking any cider.” 

The Chouan, amazed at her liberality, looked first at 
the crowns (which he had taken) and then at Mademoi- 
selle de Verneuil; but she made him a sign with her 
hand and he disappeared. 

“How could you send him away, mademoiselle? ” 
said Francine. ‘Don’t you see how the place is sur- 
rounded? we shall never get away! and who will pro- 
tect you here?” 

** You have a protector of your own,” said Marie ma- 
liciously, giving in an undertone Marche-a-Terre’s owl 
cry which she was constantly practising. 

Francine colored, and smiled rather sadly at her 
mistress’s gayety. 

“ But who is yours?” she said. 

Mademoiselle de Verneuil plucked out her dagger, 
and showed it to the frightened girl, who dropped on a 
chair and clasped her hands. 

“What have you come here for, Marie?” she cried 
in a supplicating voice which asked no answer. 

Mademoiselle de Verneuil was busily twisting the 
branches of holly which she had gathered. 

** I don’t know whether this holly will be becoming,” 
she said; ‘a brilliant skin like mine may possibly bear 
a dark wreath of this kind. What do you think, 
Francine? ” 

Several remarks of the same kind as she dressed for 
the ball showed the absolute selfpossession and cool- 
ness of this strange woman. Whoever had listened to 
her then would have found it hard to believe in the 
gravity of a situation in which she was risking her life. 


278 The Chouans. 


An India muslin gown, rather short and clinging like 
damp linen, revealed the delicate outlines of her shape ; 
over this she wore a red drapery, numerous folds of 
which, gradually lengthening as they fell by her side, 
took the graceful curves of a Greek peplum. This vo- 
luptuous garment of the pagan priestesses lessened the 
indecency of the rest of the attire which the fashions of 
the time suffered women to wear. To soften its im- 
modesty still further, Marie threw a gauze scarf over 
her shoulders, left bare and far too low by the red 
drapery. She wound the long braids of her hair into 
the flat irregular cone above the nape of the neck which 
gives such grace to certain antique statues by an artistic 
elongation of the head, while a few stray locks escaping 
from her forehead fell in shining curls beside her cheeks. 
With a form and head thus dressed, she presented a 
perfect likeness of the noble masterpieces of Greek 
sculpture. She smiled as she looked with approval at 
the arrangement of her hair, which brought out the 
beauties of her face, while the scarlet berries of the 
holly wreath which she laid upon it repeated charmingly 
the color of the peplum. As she twisted and turned a 
few leaves, to give capricious diversity to their arrange- 
ment, she examined her whole costume in a mirror to 
judge of its general effect. 

‘fT am horrible to-night,” she said, as though she 
were surrounded by flatterers. ‘* I look like a statue 
of Liberty.” 

She placed the dagger carefully in her bosom leaving 
the rubies in the hilt exposed, their ruddy reflections 
attracting the eye to the hidden beauties of her shape. 
Francine could not bring herself to leave her mistress. 
When Marie was ready she made various pretexts to 


The Chouans. 279 


follow her. She must help her to take off her mantle, 
and the overshoes which the mud and muck in the 
streets compelled her to wear (though the roads had 
been sanded for this occasion); also the gauze veil 
which Mademoiselle de Verneuil had thrown over her 
head to conceal her features from the Chouans who 
were collecting in the streets to watch the company. 
The crowd was in fact so great that they were forced 
to make their way through two hedges of Chouans. 
Francine no longer strove to detain her mistress, and 
after giving a few last touches to a costume the great- 
est charm of which was its exquisite freshness, she 
stationed herself in the courtyard that she might not 
abandon this beloved mistress to her fate without being 
able to fly to her succor; for the poor girl foresaw only 
evil in these events. 

A strange scene was taking place in Montauran’s 
chamber as Marie was on her way to the ball. The 
young marquis, who had just finished dressing, was 
putting on the broad red ribbon which distinguished 
him as first in rank of the assembly, when the Abbé 
Gudin entered the room with an anxious air. 

‘* Monsieur le marquis, come quickly,” he said. 
“You alone can quell a tumult which has broken out, 
I don’t know why, among the leaders. They talk of 
abandoning the king’s cause. I think that devil of a 
Rifosl is at the bottom of it. Such quarrels are always 
caused by some mere nonsense. Madame du Gua 
reproached him, so I hear, for coming to the ball 
ili-dressed.” 

** That woman must be crazy,” cried the marquis, “to 
try to —” 

** Rifoél retorted,” continued the abbé, interrupting 


280 The Chouans. 


his chief, “that if you had given him the money prom- 
ised him in the king’s name —”’ 

‘¢ Enough, enough; I understand it all now. This 
scene has all been arranged, and you are put forward 
as ambassador —” 

“T, monsieur le marquis!” said the abbé, again in- 
terrupting him. “Tam supporting you vigorously, and 
you will, I hope, do me the justice to believe that the 
restoration of our altars in France and that of the king 
upon the throne of his fathers are far more powerful 
incentives to my humble labors than the bishopric of 
Rennes which you —” 

The abbé dared say no more, for the marquis smiled 
bitterly at his last words. However, the young chief 
instantly repressed all expression of feeling, his brow 
grew stern, and he followed the Abbé Gudin into a hall 
where the worst of the clamor was echoing. 

‘*T recognize no authority here,” Rifoél was saying, 
casting angry looks at all about him and laying his 
hand on the hilt of his sabre. 

** Do you recognize that of common-sense?” asked 
the marquis, coldly. 

The young Chevalier de Vissard, better known under 
his patronymic of Rifoél, was silent before the general 
of the Catholic armies. 

“What is all this about, gentlemen?” asked the 
marquis, examining the faces round him. 

“ This, monsicur le marquis,” said a famous smugeler, 
with the awkwardness of a man of the people who long 
remains under the yoke of respect to a great lord, 
though he admits no barriers after he has once jumped 
then, and regards the aristocrat as an equal only, 
** this,” he said, *¢and you have come in the nick of 


The Chouans. 281 


time to hearit. Iam nosneaker of gilded phrases, and I 
shall say things plainly. I commanded five hundred men 
during the late war. Since we have taken up arms 
again I have raised a thousand heads as hard as mine 
for the service of the king. It is now seven years that 
I have risked my life in the good cause; I don’t blame 
you, but I say that the laborer is worthy of his hire. 
Now, to begin with, I demand that I be called Monsieur 
de Cottereau. I also demand that the rank of colonel 
shall be granted me, or I send in my adhesion to the 
First Consul! Let me tell you, monsieur le marquis, 
my men and I have a devilishly importunate creditor 
who must be satisfied — he’s here!” he added, striking 
his stomach. 

‘¢ Have the musicians come?” said the marquis, in a 
contemptuous tone, turning to Madame du Gua. 

But the smuggler had dealt boldly with an important 
topic, and the calculating, ambitious minds of those 
present had been too long in suspense as to what they 
might hope for from the king to allow the scorn of 
their new leader to put an end to the scene. Rifoél 
hastily blocked the way before Montauran, and seized 
his hand to oblige him to remain. 

‘* Take care, monsieur le marquis,” he said; ‘* you 
are treating far too lightly men who have a right to the 
gratitude of him whom you are here to represent. We 
know that his Majesty has sent you with full powers to 
judge of our services, and we say that they ought to be 
recognized and rewarded, for we risk our heads upon 
the scaffold daily. I know, so far as I am concerned, 
that the rank of brigadier-general — ” 

“You mean colonel.” 

**No, monsieur le marquis; Charette made me a 


282 The Chouans. 


colonel. The rank I mention cannot be denied me. I 
ain not arguing for myself, I speak for my brave broth- 
ers-in-arms, whose services ought to be recorded. Your 
signature and your promise will suffice them for the 
present ; though,” he added, in a low voice, ‘* I must say 
they are satisfied with very little. But,’ he continued, 
raising his voice, “ when the sun rises on the chateau of 
Versailles to glorify the return of the monarchy after 
the faithful have conquered France, in /’rance, for the 
king, will they obtain favors for their families, pensions 
for widows, and the restitution of their confiscated 
property? I doubt it. But, monsieur le marquis, we 
must have certified proof of our services when that 
time comes. I will never distrust the king, but I do 
distrust those cormorants of ministers and courtiers, 
who tingle his ears with talk about the public welfare, 
the honor of France, the interests of the crown, and 
other crochets. ‘They will sneer at a loyal Vendean or 
a brave Chouan, because he is old and the sword he 
drew for the good cause dangles on his withered legs, 
palsied with exposure. Can you say that we are wrong 
in feeling thus?” 

“You talk well, Monsieur du Vissard, but you are 
over hasty,” replied the marquis. 

‘+ Listen, marquis, said the Comte de Bauvan, in a 
whisper. “ Rifoél has really, on my word, told the 
truth. You are sure, yourself, to have the ear of the 
king. while the rest of us only see him at a distance 
and from time to time. I will own to you that if you 
do not give me your word as a gentleman that I shall, 
in due course of time, obtain the place of Master of 
Woods and Waters in Trance, the devil take me if I 
will risk my ueck any longer. To conquer Normandy 


LF iare 


The Chouans. 283 


for the king is not an easy matter, and I demand the 
Order for it. But,” he added, coloring, ‘* there ’s time 
enough to think of that. God forbid that I should 
imitate these poor mercenaries and harass you. Speak 
to the king for me, and that’s enough.” 

Each of the chiefs found means to let the marquis 
know, in a more or less ingenious manner, the exag- 
gerated price they set upon their services. One mod- 
estly demanded the governorship of Brittany ; another 
a barony; this one a promotion; that one a command ; 
and all wanted pensions. 

“Well, baron,” said the marquis to Monsieur du 
Guénic, ‘* don’t you want anything?” 

“These gentlemen have left me nothing but the 
crown of France, marquis, but 1 might manage to put 
up with that —” 

“Gentlemen!” cried the Abbé Gudin, in a loud voice, 
“remember that if you are too eager you will spoil every- 
thing in the day of victory. The king will then be com- 
pelled to make concessions to the revolutionists.” 

“To those Jacobins!” shouted the smuggler. “Ha! 
if the king would let me have my way, I’d answer for 
my thousand men; we’d soon wring their necks and be 
rid of them.” 

‘¢ Monsieur de Cottereau,” said the marquis, ‘‘ I 
see some of our invited guests arriving. We must all 
do our best by attention and courtesy to make them 
share our sacred enterprise; you will agree, I am sure, 
that this is not the moment to bring forward your de- 
mands, however just they may be.” 

So saying, the marquis went towards the door, asif to 
meet certain of the country nobles who were entering 
the room, but the bold smuggler barred his way in a 
respectful manner. 


284 The Chouans. 


‘* No, no, monsieur le marquis, excuse me,” he said: 
** the Jacobins taught me too well in 1793 that it is not 
he that sows and reaps who eats the bread. Sign this bit 
of paper for me, and to-morrow I’ll bring you fifteen 
hundred gars. If not, I’ll treat with the First Consul.” 

Looking haughtily about him, the marquis saw plainly 
that the boldness of the old partisan and his resolute 
air were not displeasing to any of the spectators of this 
debate. One man alone, sitting by himself in a corner 
of the room, appeared to take no part in the scene, and 
to be chiefly occupied in filling his pipe. The con- 
temptuous air with which he glanced at the speakers, 
his modest demeanor, and a look of sympathy which 
the marquis encountered in his eyes, made the young 
leader observe the man, whom he then recognized as 
Major Brigaut, and he went suddenly up to him. 

** And you, what do you want?” he said. 

‘*Oh, monsieur le marquis, if the king comes back 
that’s all I want.” 

‘* But for yourself ?” 

‘¢ For myself ? are you joking ?” 

The marquis pressed the horny hand of the Breton, 
and said to Madame du Gua, who was near them: 
‘* Madame, I may perish in this enterprise before I 
have time to make a faithful report to the king on the 
Catholic armies of Brittany. I charge you, in case you 
live to see the Restoration, not to forget this honorable 
man nor the Baron du Guénic. There is more devo- 
tion in them than in all those other men put together.” 

IIe pointed to the chiefs, who were waiting with some 
impatience till the marquis should reply to their de- 
mands. They were all holding papers in their hands, 
on which, no doubt, their services were recorded over 


The Chouans. 285 


the signatures of the various generals of the former 
war; and all were murmuring. The Abbé Gudin, the 
Comte de Bauvan, and the Baron du Guénie were con- 
‘sulting how best to help the marquis in rejecting these 
extravagant demands, for they felt the position of the 
young leader to be extremely delicate. 

Suddenly the marquis ran his blue eyes, gleaming 
with satire, over the whole assembly, and said in a clear 
voice: “ Gentlemen, I do not know whether the powers 
which the king has graciously assigned to me are such 
that I am able to satisfy your demands. He doubtless 
did not foresee sucb zeal, such devotion, on your part. 
You shall judge yourselves of the duties put upon me, 
— duties which I shall know how to accomplish.” 

So saying, he left the room and returned immediately 
holding in his hand an open letter bearing the royal seal 
and signature. 

“These are the letters-patent in virtue of which you 
are to obey me,” he said. “They authorize me to 
govern the provinces of Brittany, Normandy, Maine, 
and Anjou, in the king’s name, and to recognize the 
services of such officers as may distinguish themselves 
in his armies.” 

A movement of satisfaction ran through the assembly. 
The Chouans approached the marquis and made a re- 
spectful circle round him. All eyes fastened on the 
king’s signature. The young chief, who was standing 
near the chimney, suddenly threw the letters into the 
fire, and they were burned in a second. 

“T do not choose to command any,” cried the young 
man, “ but those who see a king in the king, and nota 
prey to prey upon. You are free, gentlemen, to leave 


” 


me. 


286 The Chouans. 


Madame du Gua, the Abbé Gudin, Major Bngaut, 
the Chevalier du Vissard, the Baron du Guénic, and the 
Comte de Bauvan raised the ery of “Vive le roi!” 
Fora moment the other leaders hesitated; then, carried 
away by the noble action of the marquis, they begged 
him to forget what had passed, assuring him that, let- 
ters-patent or not, he must always be their leader. 

“Come and dance,” cried the Comte de Bauvan, 
‘and happen what will! After all,” he added, gayly, 
‘‘it is better, my friends, to pray to God than the 
saints. Let us fight first, and see what comes of it.” 

“Ha! that’s good advice,” said Brigaut. ‘+ 1 have 
never yet known a day’s pay drawn in the morning.” 

The assembly dispersed about the rooms, where the 
guests were now arriving. The marquis tried in vain 
to shake off the gloom which darkened his face. The 
chiefs perceived the unfavorable impression made upon 
a young man whose devotion was still surrounded by 
all the beautiful illusions of youth, and they were 
ashamed of their action. 

However, a joyous gayety soon enlivened the opening 
of the ball, at which were present the most important 
personages of the royalist party, who, unable to judge 
rightly, in the depths of a rebellious province, of the 
actual events of the Revolution, mistook their hopes for 
realities. The bold operations already begun by Mon- 
tauran, his name, his fortune, his capacity, raised their 
courage and caused that political intoxication, the most 
dangerous of all excitements, which does not cool till 
torrents of blood have been uselessly shed. In_ the 
minds of all present the Revolution was nothing more 
than a passing trouble to the kingdom of France, where, 
to their belated eyes, nothing was changed. The coun- 


The Chouans. 287 


try belonged as it ever did to the house of Bourbon. 
The royalists were the lords of the soil as completely 
as they were four years earlier, when Hoche obtained 
less a peace than an armistice. ‘The nobles made light 
of the revolutionists ; for them Bonaparte was another, 
but more fortunate, Marceau. So gayety reigned. 
The women had come to dance. A few only of the 
chiefs, who bad fought the Blues, knew the gravity of 
the situation; but they were well aware that if they 
talked of the First Consul and his power to their be- 
nighted companions, they could not make themselves 
understood. These men stood apart and looked at 
the women with indifference. Madame du Gua, who 
seemed to do the honors of the ball, endeavored to 
quiet the impatience of the dancers by dispensing 
flatteries to each in turn. The musicians were tuning 
their instruments and the dancing was about to begin, 
when Madame du Gua noticed the gloom on de Mon- 
tauran’s face and went hurriedly up to him. 

“T hope it is not that vulgar scene you have just 
had with those clodhoppers which depresses you?” she 
said. 

She got no answer; the marquis, absorbed in thought, 
was listening in fancy to the prophetic reasons which 
Marie had given him in the midst of the same chiefs at 
La Viveticre, urging him to abandon the struggle of 
kings against peoples. But the young man’s soul was 
too proud, too lofty, too full perhaps of conviction, to 
abandon an enterprise he had once begun, and he de- 
cided at this moment, to continue it boldly in the face 
of all obstacles. He raised his head haughtily, and for 
the first time noticed that Madame du Gua was speak- 
ing to him. 


288 The Chouans. 


‘* Your mind is no doubt at Fougeres,” she remarked 
bitterly, seeing how useless her efforts to attract his at- 
tention had been. ‘* Ah, monsieur, I would give my 
life to put her within your power, and see you happy 
with her.” 

*¢ Then why have you done all you could to kill her?” 

“Because I wish her dead or in your arms. Yes, I 
may have loved the Marquis de Montauran when I 
thought him a hero, but now I feel only a_pitying 
friendship for him; I see him shorn of all his glory by 
a fickle love for a worthless woman.” 

‘* As for love,” said the marquis, in a sarcastic tone, 
“you judge me wrong. If I loved that girl, madame, 
I might desire her less ; if it were not for you, per- 
haps I should not think of her at all.” 

“Here she is!’ exclaimed Madame du Gua, abruptly. 

The haste with which the marquis looked round went 
to the heart of the woman; but the clear light of the 
wax candles enabled her to see every change on the 
face of the man she loved so violently, and when he 
turned back his face, smiling at her woman’s trick, she 
fancied there was still some hope of recovering him. 

‘* What are you laughing at?” asked the Comte de 
Bauvan. 

“At a soap-bubble which has burst,” interposed 
Madame du Gua, gayly. ‘* The marquis, if we are now 
to believe him, is astonished that his heart ever beat the 
faster for that girl who presumes to call herself Made- 
moiselle de Verneuil. You know who I mean.” 

‘¢ That girl!” echoed the count. “ Madame, the 
author of a wrong is bound to repair it. I give you my 
word of honor that she is really the daughter of the 
Duc de Verneuil.” 


The Chouans. 289 


‘¢ Monsicur le comte,” said the marquis, ina changed 
voice, ** which of your statements am I to believe, — 
that of La Viveticre, or that now made?” 

The loud voice of a servant at the door announced 
Mademoiselle de Verneuil. The count sprang forward 
instantly, offered his hand to the beautiful woman with 
every mark of profound respect, and led her through 
the inquisitive crowd to the marquis and Madame du 
Gua. “Believe the one now made,” he replied to the 
astonished young leader. 

Madame du Gua turned pale at the unwelcome sight 
of the girl, who stood for a moment, glancing proudly 
over the assembled company, among whom she sought 
to find the guests at La Viveticre. She awaited the 
forced salutation of her rival, and, without even looking 
at the marquis, she allowed the count to Iead her to the 
place of honor beside Madame du Gua, whose bow she 
returned with an air that was slightly protecting. But 
the latter, with a woman’s instinct, took no offense ; 
on the contrary, she immediately assumed a smiling, 
friendly manner. The extraordinary dress and beauty 
of Mademoiselle de Verneuil caused a murmur through- 
out the ballroom. When the marquis and Madame du 
Gua looked towards the late guests at La Vivetiere they 
saw them in an attitude of respectful admiration which 
was not assumed; each seemed desirous of recovering 
favor with the misjudged young woman. ‘The enemies 
were in presence of each other. 

‘*' This is really magic, mademoiselle,” said Madame 
du Gua; “there is no one like you for surprises. Have 
you come all alone?” 

“ All alone,” replied Mademoiselle de Verneuil. “So 
you have only one to kill to-night, madame.” 

19 


290 The Chouans. 


‘¢Be merciful,” said Madame du Gua. ‘‘I cannot 
express to you the pleasure I have in seeing you again. 
I have truly been overwhelmed by the remembrance of 
the wrongs I have done you, and am most anxious for 
an occasion to repair them.” 

‘* As for those wrongs, madame, I readily pardon 
those you did to me, but my heart bleeds for the Blues 
whom you murdered. However, I excuse all, in re- 
turn for the service you have done me.” 

Madame du Gua lost countenance as she felt her 
hand pressed by her beautiful rival with insulting cour- 
tesy. The marquis had hitherto stood motionless, but 
he now seized the arm of the count. 

“You have shamefully misled me,” he said; “you 
have compromised my honor. Jam nota Géronte of 
comedy, and I shall have your life or you will have 
mine.” 

“Marquis,” said the count, haughtily, ‘‘ lam ready 
to give you all the explanations you desire.” 

They passed into the next room. The witnesses of 
this scene, even those least initiated into the secret, 
began to understand its nature, so that when the musi- 
cians gave the signal for the dancing to begin no one 
moved. 

‘* Mademoiselle, what service have I rendered you 
that deserves a return?” said Madame du Gua, biting 
her lips in a sort of rage. 

** Did you not enlighten me as to the true character 
of the Marquis de Montauran, madame? With what 
utter indifference that man allowed me to go to my 
death! I give him up to you willingly.” 

“Then why are you here?” asked Madame du Gua, 
eagerly. 


The Chouans. 291 


‘¢ To recover the respect and consideration you took 
from me at La Viveticre, madame. As for all the rest, 
make yourself easy. Even if the marquis returned to 
me, you know very well that a return is never love.” 

Madame du Gua took Mademoiselle de Verneuil’s 
hand with that affectionate touch and motion which 
women practise to each other, especially in the presence 
of men. 

“Well, my poor dear child,” she said, ‘‘ I am glad 
to find you so reasonable. If the service I did you was 
rather harsh,” she added, pressing the hand she held, 
and feeling a desire to rend it as her fingers felt its 
softness and delicacy, ‘‘it shall at least be thorough. 
Listen to me, I know the character of the Gars; he 
meant to deceive you; he neither can nor will marry 
any woman except —” 

ee Ah)” 

‘* Yes, mademoiselle, he has accepted his dangerous 
mission to win the hand of Mademoiselle d’Uxelles, a 
marriage to which his Majesty has promised his coun- 
tenance.” 

“Ab! ah!” 

Mademoiselle de Verneuil added not a word to that 
scornful ejaculation. The young and handsome Cheva- 
lier du Vissard, eager to be forgiven for the joke which 
had led to the insults at La Viveti¢re, now came up to 
her and respectfully invited her to dance. She placed 
her hand in his, and they took their places in a quad- 
rille opposite to Madame du Gua. The gowns of the 
royalist women, which recalled the fashions of the ex- 
iled court, and their créped and powdered hair seemed 
absurd as soon as they were contrasted with the attire 
which republican fashions authorized Mademoiselle de 


292 The Chouans. 


Verneuil to wear. This attire, which was elegant, rich, 
and yet severe, was loudly condemned but inwardly 
envied by all the women present. The men could not 
restrain their admiration for the beauty of her natural 
hair and the adjustment of a dress the charm of which 
was in the proportions of the form which it revealed. 

At that moment the marquis and the count re-entered 
the ballroom behind Mademoiselle de Verneuil, who did 
not turn her head. If a mirror had not been there to 
inform her of Montauran’s presence, she would have 
known it from Madame du Gua’s face, which scarcely 
concealed, under an apparently indifferent air, the im- 
patience with which she awaited the conflict which must, 
sooner or later, take place between the lovers. Though 
the marquis talked with the count and other persons, he 
heard the remarks of all the dancers who from time to 
time in the mazes of the quadrille took the place of 
Mademoiselle de Verneuil and her partner. 

*¢ Positively, madame, she came alone,” said one. 

‘¢ She must be a bold woman,” replied the lady. 

‘¢Tf I were dressed like that I should feel myself 
naked,” said another woman. 

‘*Oh, the gown is not decent, certainly,” replied her 
partner; ‘* but it is so becoming, and she is so hand- 
some.” 

“T am ashamed to look at such perfect dancing, for 
her sake; isn’t it exactly that of an opera girl?” said 
the envious woman. 

‘* Do you suppose she has come here to intrigue for 
the First Consul?” said another. 

‘¢ A joke if she has,” replied the partner. 

** Well, she can’t offer innocence as a dowry,” said 
the lady, laughing. 


The Chouans. 293 


The Gars turned abruptly to see the lady who uttered 
this sarcasm, and Madame du Gua looked at him as 
if to say, “ You see what people thivk of her.” 

‘¢ Madame,” said the count, laughing, ‘*so far, it is 
only women who have taken her innocence away from 
her.” 

The marquis privately forgave the count. When he 
ventured to look at his mistress, whose beauty was, like 
that of most women, brought into relief by the light of 
the wax candles, she turned her back upon him as she 
resumed her place, and went on talking to her partner 
in a way to let the marquis hear the sweetest and most 
caressing tones of her voice. 

“The First Consul sends dangerous ambassadors,” 
her partner was saying. 

‘** Monsieur,” she replied, *‘ you all said that at La 
Vivetiere.” 

‘*You have the memory of a king,” replied he, dis- 
concerted at his own awkwardness. 

“To forgive injuries one must needs remember them,” 
she said quickly, relieving his embarrassment with a 
smile. 

“Are we all included in that amnesty?” said the 
marquis, approaching her. 

But she darted away in the dance, with the gayety of 
a child, leaving him without an answer. He watched 
her coldly and sadly; she saw it, and bent her head 
with one of those coquettish motions which the graceful 
lines of her throat enabled her to make, omitting no 
movement or attitude which could prove to him the 
perfection of her figure. She attracted him like hope, 
and eluded him like a memory. To see her thus was 
to desire to possess her at any cost. She knew that, 


294 The Chouans. 


and the sense it gave her of her own beauty shed upon 
her whole person an inexpressible charm. The mar- 
quis felt the storm of love, of rage, of madness, rising 
in his heart; le wrung the count’s hand violently and 
left the room. 

‘‘Is he gone?” said Mademoiselle de Verneuil, re- 
turning to her place. 

The count gave her a glance and passed into the next 
room, from which he presently returned accompanied 
by the Gars. 

‘*He is mine!” she thought, observing his face in 
the mirror. 

She received the young leader with a displeased air 
and said nothing, but she smiled as she turned away 
from lim; he was so superior to all about him that she 
was proud of being able to rule him; and obeying an 
instinct which sways all women more or less, she re- 
solved to let him know the value of a few gracious 
words by making him pay dear for them. As soon as 
the quadrille was over, all the gentlemen who had been 
at La Vivetiere surrounded Mademoiselle de Verneuil, 
wishing by their flattering attentions to obtain her par- 
don for the mistake they had made; but he whom she 
longed to see at her feet did not approach the circle 
over which she now reigned a queen. 

“We thinks I still love him,” she thought, ‘* and does 
not wish to be confounded with mere flatterers.” 

She refused to dance again. Then, as if the ball 
were given for her, she walked about on the arm of the 
Comte de Bauvan, to whom she was pleased to show 
some familiarity. The affair at La Viveticre was by 
this time known to all present, thanks to Madame du 
Gua, and the lovers were the object of general attention. 





The Chouans. 295 


The marquis dared not again address his mistress; a 
sense of the wrong he had done her aud the violence of 
his returning passion made her seem to him actually 
terrible. On her side Marie watched his apparently 
‘alm face while she seemed to be observing the ball. 

“Tt is fearfully hot here,” she said to the count, 
“Take me to the other side where I can breathe; I 
am stifling here.” 

And she motioned towards a small room where a few 
card-players were assembled. The marquis followed her. 
He ventured to hope she bad left the crowd to receive 
him, and this supposed favor roused his passion to ex- 
treme violence; for his love had only increased through 
the resistance he had made to it during the last few 
days. Mademoiselle de Verneuil still tormented him ; 
her eyes, so soft and velvety for the count, were hard 
and stern when, as if by accident, they met his. Mon- 
tauran at last made a painful effort and said, in a 
muflied voice, “ Will you never forgive me?” 

‘*¢ Love forgives nothing, or :t forgives all,” she said, 
coldly. “But,” she added, noticing his joyful look, 
‘*it must be love.” 

She took the count’s arm once more and moved for- 
ward into a small boudoir which adjoined the cardroom. 
The marquis followed her. 

‘Will you nut hear me?” he said. 

“One would really think, monsieur.” she replied, 
‘¢that I had come here to meet you, and not to vindi- 
cate my own self-respect. If you do not cease this 
odious pursuit I shall leave the ballroom. 

‘* Ah!” he cried, recollecting one of the crazy actions 
of the last Duc de Lorraine, “let me speak to you only 
so long as I can hold this live coal in my hand.” 


296 The Chouans. 


He stooped to the hearth and picking up a brand 
held it tightly. Mademoiselle de Verneuil flushed, took 
her arm from that of the count, and looked at the mar- 
quis in amazement. The count softly withdrew, leaving 
them alone together. So crazy an action shook Marie’s 
heart, for there is nothing so persuasive in love as cou- 
rageous folly. 

“You only prove to me,” She said. trying to make 
him throw away the brand, ** that you are willing to 
make me suffer cruelly. You are extreme in every- 
thing. On the word of a fool and the slander of a 
woman you suspected that one who had just saved your 
life was capable of betraying you.” 

** Yes,” he said, smiling, ‘* 1 have been very cruel to 
you; but nevertheless, forget it; I shall never forget 
it. Hear me. I have been shamefully deceived ; but 
so many circumstances on that fatal day told against 
you —” 

‘* And those circumstances were stronger than your 
love?” 

He hesitated; she made a motion of contempt, and 
rose. 

**Oh, Marie. I shall never cease to believe in you 
now.” 

‘Then throw that fire away. You are mad. Open 
your hand; I insist upon it.” 

Ife took delight in still resisting the soft efforts of 
her fingers, but she succeeded in opening the hand she 
would fain have kissed. 

“What good did that do vou?” she said. as she tore 
her handkerchief and laid it on the burn, which the 
marquis covered with his glove. 

Madame du Gua had stolen softly into the cardroom, 


The Chouans. yaoh 


watching the lovers with furtive eyes, but escaping 
theirs adroitly ; it was, however, impossible for her to 
understand their conversation from their actions. 

‘Tf all that they said of me was true you must admit 
that I am avenged at this moment,” said Marie, with a 
look of malignity which startled the marquis. 

‘¢What feeling brought you here?” he asked. 

‘*Do you suppose, my dear friend, that you can 
despise a woman like me with impunity? I came here 
for your sake and my own,” she continued, after a 
pause, laying her hand on the hilt of rubies in her 
bosom and showing him the blade of her dagger. 

‘¢What does all that mean?” thought Madame du 
Gua. 

“ But,” she continued, “ you still love me; at any rate, 
you desire me, and the folly you have just committed,” 
she added, taking his hand, ** proves it to me. I will 
again be that I desired to be; and I return to Fougeres 
happy. Love absolves everything. You love me; I 
have regained the respect of the man who represents 
to me the whole world, and I can die.” 

** Then you still love me?” said the marquis. 

** Have I said so?” she replied with a scornful look, 
delighting in the torture she was making him endure. 
“JT have run many risks to come here. I have saved 
Monsieur de Bauvyan’s life, and he, more grateful than 
others, offers me in return his fortune and his name. 
You have never even thought of doing that.” 

The marquis, bewildered by these words, stifled the 
worst anger he had ever felt, supposing that the count 
had played him false. He made no answer. 

‘Ah! you reflect,” she said, bitterly. 

“ Mademoiselle,” replied the young man, “ your 
doubts justify mine.” 


F dias Bi ~ = 


298 The Chouans. 


‘* Let us leave this room,’ said Mademoiselle de Ver- 
neuil, catching sight of a corner of Madame du Gua’s 
gown, and rising. But the wish to reduce her rival to 
despair was too strong, and she made no further mo- 
tion to go. 

‘* Do you mean to drive me to hell?” cried the mar- 
quis, seizing her hand and pressing it violently. 

‘* Did you not drive me to hell five days ago? are you 
not leaving me at this very moment uncertain whether 
your love is sincere or not?” 

“ But how do I know whether your revenge may not 
lead you to obtain my life to tarnish it, instead of 
killing me.” 

** Ah! you do not love me! you think of yourself 
and not of me!” she said angrily, shedding a few tears. 

The coquettish creature well knew the power of her 
eyes when moistened by tears. 

‘* Well, then,” he cried, beside himself, “ take my life, 
but dry those tears.” 

‘* Oh, my love! my love!” she exclaimed in a stifled 
voice; “those are the words, the accents, the looks I 
have longed for, to allow me to prefer your happi- 
hess to mine. But,” she added, “I ask one more 
proof of your love, which you say is so great. I wish 
to stay here only so long as may be needed to show the 
company tbat you are mine. I will not even drink a 
glass of water in the house of a woman who has twice 
tried to kill me, who is now, perhaps, plotting mischief 
against us,” and she showed the marquis the floating 
corner of Madame du Gua’s drapery. Then she dried her 
eyes and put her lips to the ear of the young man, who 
quivered as he felt the soft caress of her warm breath. 
‘* See that everything is prepared for my departure,” 


The Chouans. 299 


she said; “you shall take me yourself to Fougéres and 
there only will I tell you if I love you. For the second 
time I trust you. Will you trust me a second time?” 

* Ah, Marie, you have brought me to a point where I 
know not what Ido. Iam intoxicated by your words, 
your looks, by you — by you, and Lam ready to obey you.” 

‘* Well, then, make me for an instant very happy. 
Let me enjoy the only triumpl I desire. I want to 
breathe freely, to drink of the life L have dreamed, to 
feed my illusions before they are gone forever. Come 
— come into the ballroom and dance with me.” 

They re-entered the room together, and though Made- 
moiselle de Verneuil was as completely satisfied in heart 
and vanity as any woman ever could be, the unfathom- 
able gentleness of her eyes, the demure smile on her 
lips, the rapidity of the motions of a gay dance, kept 
the secret of her thoughts as the sea swallows those of 
the criminal who casts a weighted body into its depths. 
But a murmur of admiration ran through the company 
as, circling in each other’s arms, eye to eye, voluptuously 
interlaced, with heavy heads, and dimmed sight, they 
waltzed with a sort of frenzy, dreaming of the pleasures 
they hoped to find in a future union. 

A few moments later Mademoiselle de Verneuil 
and the marquis were in the latter's travelling- 
carriage drawn by four horses. Surprised to see 
these enemies hand in hand, and evidently under- 
standing each other, Francine kept silence, not daring 
to ask her mistress whether her conduct was that of 
treachery or love. Thanks to the darkness, the mar- 
quis did not observe Mademoiselle de Verneuil’s agita- 
tion as they neared Fougeres. The first flush of dawn 
showed the towers of Saint-Léonard in the distance. 


300 The Chouans. 


At that moment Marie was saying to herself: ‘*I am 
going to my death.” 

As they ascended the first hill the lovers had the same 
thought; they left the carriage and mounted the rise on 
foot, in memory of their first meeting. When Marie took 
the young man’s arm she thanked him by a smile for 
respecting her silence; then, as they reached the summit 
of the plateau and looked at Fougéres, she threw off her 
revery. 

** Don’t come any farther,” she said; “ my authority 
cannot save you from the Blues to-day.” 

Montauran showed some surprise. She smiled sadly 
and pointed to a block of a granite, as if to tell him to 
sit down, while she herself stood before him in a melan- 
choly attitude. ‘The rending emotions of her soul no 
longer permitted her to play a part. At that moment 
she would have knelt on red-hot coals without feeling 
them any more than the marquis had felt the fire-brand 
he had taken in his hand to prove the strength of his 
passion. It was not until she had contemplated her 
lover with a look of the deepest anguish that she said 
to him, at last: — 

“ All that you have suspected of me is true.” 

The marquis started. 

‘Ah! I pray you,” she said, clasping her hands, 
‘* listen to me without interruption. I am indeed the 
daughter of the Due de Verneuil, — but his natural 
daughter. My mother, a Demoiselle de Casteran, who 
became a nun to escape the reproaches of her family, 
expiated her fault by fifteen years of sorrow, and died 
at Séez, where she was abbess. On her death-bed she 
implored, for the first time and only for me, the help of 
the man who had betrayed her, for she kuew she was 


) 


> 





The Chouans. 301 


leaving me without friends, without fortune, without a 
future. ‘The duke accepted the charge, and took me 
from the roof of Francine’s mother, who had hitherto 
taken care of me; perhaps he liked me because I was 
beautiful; possibly I reminded him of his youth. He 
was one of those great lords of the old régime, who 
took pride in showing how they could get their crimes 
forgiven by committing them with grace. I will say 
no more, he was my father. But let ine explain to you 
how my life in Paris injured my soul. The society of 
the Due de Verneuil, to which he introduced me, was 
bitten by that scofling philosophy about which all 
France was then enthusiastic because it was wittily 
professed. The brilliant conversations which charmed 
my ear were marked by subtlety of perception and by 
witty contempt for all that was true and spiritual. Men 
laughed at sentiments, and pictured them all the better 
because they did not feel them; their satirical epigrams 
were as fascinating as the light-hearted humor with 
which they could put a whole adventure into a word; 
and yet they had sonietimes too much wit, and wearied 
women by making love an art, and not a matter of feel- 
ing. I could not resist the tide. And yet my soul was 
too ardent — forgive this pride — not to feel that their 
minds had withered their hearts; and the life I led 
resulted in a perpetual struggle between my natural 
feelings and beliefs and the vicious habits of mind 
which I there contracted. Several superior men took 
pleasure in developing in me that liberty of thought 
and contempt for public opinion which do tear from a 
woman her modesty of soul, robbed of which she loses 
her charm. Alas! my subsequent misfortunes have 
failed to lessen the faults I learned through opulence. 


802 The Chouans. 


My father,” she continued, with a sigh, ‘‘ the Due de 
Verneuil, died, after duly recognizing me as his daughter 
and making a provision for me by his will, which con- 
siderably reduced the fortune of my brother, his legiti- 
mate son. I found myself one day without a home and 
without a protector. My brother contested the will 
which made me rich. Three years of my late life had 
developed my vanity. By satisfying all my fancies my 
father had created in my nature a need of luxury, and 
given me habits of self-indulgence of which my own 
mind, young and artless as it then was, could not per- 
ceive either the danger or the tyranny. A friend of my 
father, the Maréchal Due de Lenoncourt, then seventy 
years old, offered to become my guardian, and I found 
myself, soon after the termination of the odious suit, in 
a brilliant home, where I enjoyed all the advantages of 
which my brother’s cruelty had deprived me. Every 
evening the old mar¢échal came to sit with me and com- 
fort me with kind and consoling words. His white hair 
and the many proofs he gave me of paternal tenderness 
led me to turn all the feelings of my heart upon him, 
and I felt myself his daughter. I accepted his presents, 
hiding none of my caprices from him, for I saw how he 
loved to gratify them. I heard one fatal evening that 
all Paris believed me the mistress of the poor old man. 
I was told that it was then beyond my power to recover 
an innocence thus gratuitously denied me. They said 
that the man who had abused my inexperience could 
not be my lover, and would not be my husband. The 
week in which I made this horrible discovery the duke 
left Paris. I was shamefully ejected from the little 
house where he had placed me, and which did not 
belong to bim. Up to this point I have told you the 


The Chouans. 803 


truth as though I stood before God; but now, do not 
ask a wretched woman to give account of sufferings 
which are buried in her heart. The time came when I 
found myself married to Danton. A few days later the 
storm uprooted the mighty oak around which I had 
thrown my arms. Again I was plunged into the worst 
distress, and I resolved to kill myself. I don’t know 
whether love of life, or the hope of wearying ill-fortune 
and of finding at the bottom of the abyss the happiness 
which had always escaped me were, unconsciously to 
myself, my advisers, or whether I was fascinated by the 
arguments of a young man from Vendéme, who, for the 
last two years, has wound himself about me like a ser- 
pent round a tree, —in short, I know not how it is 
that I accepted, for a payment of three hundred thou- 
sand francs, the odious mission of making an unknown 
man in love with me and then betraying him. I met 
you; I knew you at once by one of those presentiments 
which never mislead us; yet I tried to doubt my recog- 
nition, for the more I came to love you, the more the 
certainty appalled me. When I saved you from the 
hands of Hulot, I abjured the part I had taken; I re- 
solved to betray the slaughterers, and not their victim. 
I did wrong to play with men, with their lives, their 
principles, with myself, like a thoughtless girl who sees 
only sentiments in this life. I believed you loved me; 
I let myself cling to the hope that my life might begin 
anew; but all things have revealed my past, — even I 
myself, perhaps, for you must have distrusted a woman 
so passionate as you have found me. Alas! is there 
no excuse for my love and my deception? My life was 
hke a troubled sleep; I woke and thought myself a 
gil; J was in Alengon, where all my memories were 


3804 The Chouans. 


pure and chaste. I had the mad simplicity to think 
that love would baptize me into innocence. For a 
moment I thought myself pure, for I had never loved. 
But last night your passion seemed to me true, anda 
voice cried to me, ‘Do not deceive him.’ Monsieur le 
marquis,” she said, in a guttural voice which haughtily 
challenged condemnation, ** know this; I am a dishon- 
ored creature, unworthy of you. From this hour I 
accept my fate as a lost woman. I am weary of play- 
ing a part, — the part of a woman to whom you had 
brought back the sanctities of her soul. Virtue is a 
burden to me. I should despise you if you were weak 
enough to marry me. The Comte de Bauvan might 
commit that folly, but you—you must be worthy of 
your future and leave me without regret. A courtesan 
is too exacting; I should not love you like the simple, 
artless girl who felt for a moment the delightful hope 
of being your companion, of making you happy, of 
doing you honor, of becoming a noble wife. But I 
gather from that futile hope the courage to return to a 
life of vice and infamy, that I may put an eternal bar- 
rier between us. I sacrifice both honor and fortune to 
you. The pride I take in that sacrifice will support me 
in my wretchedness, — fate may dispose of me as it will. 
I will never betray you. I shall return to Paris. There 
your name will be to me a part of myself, and the glory 
you win will console my grief. As for you, you are a 
man, and you will forget me. Farewell.” 

She darted away in the direction of the gorges of 
Saint-Sulpice, and disappeared before the marquis could 
rise to detain her. But she came back unseen, hid her- 
self in a cavity of the rocks, and examined the young 
man with a curiosity mingled with doubt. Presently 





The Chouans. 3805 


she saw him walking like a man overwhelmed, without 
seeming to know where he went. 

“Can he be weak?” she thought, when he had dis- 
appeared, and she felt she was parted from him. “ Will 
he understand me?” She quivered. Then she turned 
and went rapidly towards Fougéres, as though she 
feared the marquis might follow her into the town, 
where certain death awaited him. 

“Francine, what did he say to you?” she asked, 
when the faithful girl rejoined her. 

‘¢ Ah! Marie, how I pitied him. You great ladies 
stab a man with your tongues.” 

‘¢ How did he seem when he came up to you?” 

‘* As if he saw me not at all! Oh, Marie, he loves 
you!” 

‘¢ Yes, he loves me, or he does not love me — there 
is heaven or hell for me in that,’ she answered. “ Be- 
tween the two extremes there is no spot where I can 
set my foot.” 

After thus carrying out her resolution, Marie gave 
way to grief, and her face, beautified till then by 
these conflicting sentiments, changed for the worse so 
rapidly that in a single day, during which she floated 
incessantly between hope and despair, she lost the glow 
of beauty, and the freshness which has its source in 
the absence of passion or the ardor of joy. Anxious 
to ascertain the result of her mad enterprise, Hulot and 
Corentin came to see her soon after her return. She 
received them smiling. 

“Well,” she said to the commandant, whose care- 
worn face had a questioning expression, ‘‘ the fox is 
coming within range of your guns; you will soon have 
a glorious triumph over him.” 

20 


306 The Chouans. 


“What happened?” asked Corentin, carelessly, giving 
Mademoiselle de Verneuil one of those oblique glances 
with which diplomatists of his class spy on thought. 

*“* Ah!” she said, “the Gars is more in love than 
ever; I made him come with me to the gates of 
Fougeres.” 

“Your power seems to have stopped there,” remarked 
Corentin ; ‘‘ the fears of your ei-devant are greater than 
the love you inspire.” 

‘* You judge him by yourself,” she replied, with a 
contemptuous look. 

“ Well, then,” said he, unmoved, ** why did you not 
bring him here to your own house?” 

‘“¢ Commandant,” she said to Hulot, with a coaxing 
smile, ‘‘if he really loves me, would you blame me for 
saving his life and getting him to leave France?” 

The old soldier came quickly up to her, took her 
hand, and kissed it with asort of enthusiasm. Then he 
looked at her fixedly and said in a gloomy tone: 
‘* You forget my two friends and my sixty-three men.” 

*“ Ah, commandant,” she cried, with all the naivete of 
passion, “he was not accountable for that; he was 
deceived by a bad woman, Charette’s mistress. who 
would, I do believe, drink the blood of the Blues.” 

“Come, Marie,” said Corentin, ‘don’t tease the 
commandant; he does not understand such jokes.” 

“ Tfold vour tongue,” she answered, “snd remember 
that the day when you displease me too much will have 
ho morrow for you.” 

**T see, mademoiselle.”’ said Hulot, without bitter- 
ness, ‘* that I must prepare for a fight.” 

** You are not strong enough. my dear colonel. JT saw 
more than six thousand men at Saint James, — regular 





The Chouans. 307 


troops, artillery, and English officers. But they cannot 
do much unless he leads them? I agree with Fouché, 
his presence is the head and front of everything.” 

‘* Are we to get his head? — that’s the point,” said 
Corentin, impatiently. 

“T don’t know,” she answered, carelessly. 

“English officers!” cried Hulot, angrily, ** that’s all 
that was wanting to make a regular brigand of him. 
Ha! ha! I’ll give him English, I will!” 

“Tt seems to me, citizen-diplomat,” said Hulot to 
Corentin, after the two had taken leave and were at 
some distance from the house, ‘* that you allow that 
girl to send you to the right-about when she pleases.” 

‘* Tt is quite natural for you, commandant,” replied 
Coren@n, with a thoughtful air, “to see nothing but 
fighting in what she said to us. You soldiers never 
seem to know there are various ways of making war. 
To use the passions of men and women like wires to be 
pulled for the benefit of the State ; to keep the running- 
gear of the great machine we call government in good 
order, and fasten to it the desires of human nature, 
like baited traps which it is fun to watch, —I call that 
creating a world, like God, and putting ourselves at 
the centre of it!” 

‘¢ You will please allow me to prefer my calling to 
yours,” said the soldier, curtly. ‘* You can do as you 
like with your running-gear; I recognize no authority 
but that of the minister of war. I have my orders; I 
shall take the field with veterans who don’t skulk, and 
face an enemy you want to catch behind.” 

‘¢Oh, you ean fight if you want to,” replied Corentin, 
**From what that girl has dropped, close-mouthed as 
you think she is, I can tell you that you’ll have to 


808 The Chouans. 


skirmish about, and I myself will give you the pleasure 
of an interview with the Gars before long.” 

‘* How so?” asked Hulot, moving back a step to get 
a better view of this strange individual. 

“Mademoiselle de Verneuil is in love with him,” 
replied Corentin, in a thick voice, ‘‘and perhaps he 
loves her. A marquis, a knight of Saint-Louis, young, 
brilliant, perhaps rich, — what alist of temptations! She 
would be foolish indeed not to look after her own in- 
terests and try to marry him rather than betray him. 
The girl is attempting to fool us. But I saw hesitation 
in her eyes. They probably have a rendezvous; per- 
haps they’ve met already. Well, to-morrow I shall 
have him by the forelock. Yesterday he was nothing 
more than the enemy of the Republic, to-day he is 
mine; and I tell you this, every man who has been so 
rash as to come between that girl and me has died upon 
the scaffold.” 

So saying, Corentin dropped into a revery which hin- 
dered him from observing the disgust on the face of the 
honest soldier as he discovered the depths of this in- 
trigue, and the mechanism of the means employed by 
Fouché. Hulot resolved on the spot to thwart Corentin 
in every way that did not conflict essentially with the 
success of the government, and to give the Gars a fair 
chance of dying honorably, sword in hand, before he 
could fall a prey to the executioner, for whom this 
agent of the detective police acknowledged himself the 
purveyor. 

‘¢Tf the First Consul would listen to me,” thought 
Hulot, as he turned his back on Corentin, “he would 
leave those foxes to fight aristocrats, and send his 
soldiers on other business.” 


’ 


The Chouans. 309 


Corentin looked coldly after the old soldier, whose 
face had brightened at the resolve, and his eyes gleamed 
with a sardonic expression, which showed the mental 
superiority of this subaltern Machiavelli. 

‘¢ Give an ell of blue cloth to those fellows, and hang 
a bit of iron at their waists,” he said to himself, ‘* and 
they ‘ll think there’s but one way to kill people.” 
Then, after walking up and down awhile very slowly, 
he exclaimed suddenly, ‘* Yes, the time has come, that 
woman shall be mine! For five years I’ve been draw- 
ing the net round her, and I have her now; with her, 
I can be a greater man in the government than Fouché 
himself. Yes, if she loses the only man she has ever 
loved, grief will give her to me, body and soul; but I 
must be on the watch night and day.” 

A few moments later the pale face of this man might 
have been seen through the window of a house, from 
which he could observe all who entered the cul-de-sac 
formed by the line of houses running parallel with 
Saint-Léonard, one of those houses being that now 
occupied by Mademoiselle de Verneuil. With the 
patience of a cat watching a mouse Corentin was there 
in the same place on the following morning, attentive to 
the slightest noise, and subjecting the passers-by to the 
closest examination. The day that was now beginning 
was a market day. Although in these calamitous times 
the peasants rarely risked themselves in the towns, 
Corentin presently noticed a small man with a gloomy 
face, wrapped in a goatskin, and carrying on his arm 
a small flat basket; he was making his way in the 
direction of Mademoiselle de Verneuil’s house, casting 
careless glances about him. Corentin watched him 
enter the house; then he ran down into the street, 


310 The Chouans. 


meaning to waylay the man as he left; but on second 
thoughts it occurred to him that if he called unex- 
pectedly on Mademoiselle de Verneuil he might surprise 
by a single glance the secret that was hidden in the 
basket of the emissary. Besides, he had already learned 
that it was impossible to extract anything from the 
inscrutable answers of Bretons and Normans. 

‘*¢ Galope-Chopine!” cried Mademoiselle Je Verneuil, 
when Francine brought the man to her. ‘* Does he love 
me?” she murmured to herself, in a low voice. 

The instinctive hope sent a brilliant color to her 
cheeks and joy into her heart. Galope-Chopine looked 
alternately from the mistress to the maid with evident 
distrust of the latter; but a sign from Mademoiselle de 
Verneuil reassured him. 

** Madame,” he said, ‘‘ about two o’clock he will be 
at my house waiting for you.” 

Emotion prevented Mademoiselle de Verneuil from 
giving any other reply than a movement of her head, 
but the man understood her meaning. At that moment 
Corentin’s step was heard in the adjoining room, but 
Galope-Chopine showed no uneasiness, though Made- 
moiselle de Verneuil’s look and shudder warned him of 
danger, and as soon as the spy had entered the room 
the Chouan raised his voice to an ear-splitting tone. 

‘*Ha, ha!” he said to Francine, ‘‘ I tell you there’s 
Breton butter and Breton butter. You want the Gibarry 
kind, and you won't give more than eleven sous a pound ; 
then why did you send me to fetch it? Itis good butter 
that.” he added, uncovering the basket to show the pats 
which Barbette had made. ‘* You ought to be fair, my 
good lady, and pay one sou more.” 

His hollow voice betrayed no emotion, and his green 


The Chouans. 311 


eyes, shaded by thick gray eyebrows, bore Corentin’s 
piercing glance without flinching. 

‘¢ Nonsense, my good man, you are not here to sell 
butter; you are talking to a lady who never bargained 
for a thing in her life. The trade you run, old fellow, 
will shorten you by a head ina very few days;” and 
Corentin, with a friendly tap on the man’s shoulder, 
added, ‘* you can’t keep up being a spy of the Blues 
and a spy of the Chouans very long.” 

Galope-Chopine needed all his presence of mind to 
subdue his rage, and not deny the accusation which his 
avarice had made a just one. He contented himself 
with saying :— 

‘¢ Monsieur is making game of me.” 

Corentin turned his back on the Chouan, but, while 
bowing to Mademoiselle de Verneuil, whose heart stood 
still, he watched him in the mirror behind her. Galope- 
Chopine, unaware of this, gave a glance at Francine, to 
which she replied by pointing to the door, and saying, 
‘*Come with me, my man, and we will settle the matter 
between us.” 

Nothing escaped Corentin, neither the fear which Ma- 
demoiselle de Verneuil could not conceal under a smile, 
nor her color and the contraction of her features, nor 
the Chouan’s sign and Francine’s reply; he had seen 
all. Convinced that Galope-Chopine was sent by the 
marquis, he caught the man by the long hairs of his 
goatskin as he was leaving the room, turned him round 
to face him, and said with a keen look: ‘* Where do 
you live, my man? I want butter, too.” 

‘¢ My good monsieur,” said the Chouan, ‘all Fou- 
geres knows where I live. I am—” 


**Corentin!” exclaimed Mademoiselle de Verneuil, 


$12 Tie Chouans. 


interrupting Galope-Chopine. ‘** Why do you come 
here at this time of day? Iam scarcely dressed. Let 
that peasant alone; he does not understand your tricks 
any more than I understand the motive of them. You 
can go, my man.” 

Galope-Chopine hesitated fora moment. The inde- 
cision, real or feigned, of the poor devil, who knew not 
which to obey, deceived even Corentin; but the 
Chouan, finally, after an imperative gesture from the 
lady, left the room with a dragging step. Mademoi- 
selle de Verneuil and Corentin looked at each other in 
silence. This time Marie’s limpid eyes could not en- 
dure the gleam of cruel fire in the man’s look. The 
resolute manner in which the spy had forced his way 
into her room, an expression on his face which Marie 
had never seen there before, the deadened tones of his 
shrill voice, his whole demeanor, —all these things 
alarmed her; she felt that a secret struggle was about 
to take place between them, and that he meant to em- 
ploy against her all the powers of his evil influence. 
But though she had at this moment a full and distinct 
view of the gulf into which she was plunging, she 
gathered strength from her love to shake off the icy 
chill of these presentiments. 

**Corentin,” she said, with a sort of gayety, ‘‘ I hope 
you are going to let me make my toilet?” 

‘* Marie,” he said, — ** yes, permit me to call you so, 
— you don’t yet know me. Listen; a much less saga- 
cious man than I would see your love for the Marquis de 
Montauran. I have several times offered you my heart 
and hand. You have never thought me worthy of you ; 
and perhaps you are right. But however much you 
may feel yourself too high, too beautiful, too superior 


The Chouans. OLS 


for me, I can compel you to come down to my level. 
My ambition and my maxims have given you a low 
opinion of me; frankly, you are mistaken. Men are 
not worth even what I rate them at, and that is next 
to nothing. I shall certainly attain a position which will 
gratify your pride. Who will ever love you better, or 
make you more absolutely mistress of yourself and of 
him, than the man who has loved you now for five 
years? Though I run the risk of exciting your sus- 
picions, — for you cannot conceive that any one should 
renounce an idolized woman out of excessive love, — 
I will now prove to you the unselfishness of my pas- 
sion. Don’t shake your head. If the marquis loves 
you, marry him; but before you do so, make sure of 
his sincerity. I could not endure to see you deceived, 
for I do prefer your happiness to my own. My resolu- 
tion may surprise you; lay it to the prudence of a man 
who is not so great a fool as to wish to possess a woman 
against her will. I blame myself, not you, for the fail- 
ure of my efforts to win you. I hoped to do so by 
submission and devotion, for I have long, as you well 
know, tried to make you happy according to my lights ; 
but you have never in any way rewarded me.” 

‘*T have sutfered you to be near me,” she said, 
haughtily. 

** Add that you regret it.” 

** After involving me in this infamous enterprise, do 
you think that I have any thanks to give you?” 

“When I proposed to you an enterprise which was 
not exempt from blame to timid minds,” he replied, au- 
daciously, ‘* I had only your own prosperity in view. 
As for me, whether I succeed or fail, I can make ail 
results further my ends. If you marry Montauran, J 


314 The Chouans. 


shall be delighted to serve the Bourbons in Paris, where 
I am already a member of the Clichy club. Now, if 
circumstances were to put me in correspondence with 
the princes I should abandon the interests of the Re- 
public, which is already on its last legs. General Bona- 
parte is much too able a man not to know that he can’t 
be in England and in Italy at the same time, and that is 
how the Republic is about to fall. I have no doubt he 
made the 18th Brumaire to obtain greater advantages 
over the Bourbons when it came to treating with them. 
He is a long-headed fellow, and very keen; but the 
politicians will get th@ better of him on their own 
ground. The betrayal of France is another scruple 
“which men of superiority leave to fools. I won’t con- 
ceal from you that I have come here with the necessary 
authority to open negotiations with the Chouans, o7 to 
further their destruction, as the case may be: for 
Fouché, my patron, is deep; he has always played a 
double part; during the Terror he was as much for 
tobespierre as for Danton —”’ 

‘+ Whom you basely abandoned,” she said. 

*¢ Nonsense; he is dead, — forget him,” replied Co- 
rentin. ‘* Come, speak honestly to me; 1 have sct you 
the example. Old Hulot is deeper than he looks; if 
you want to escape his vigilance, ] can help you. Re- 
member that he holds all the valleys and will instantly 
detect a rendezvous. If you make one in Fougeres, 
under his very eyes, you are at the mercy of his pa- 
trols. See how quickly he knew that this Chouan had 
entered your house. His military sagacity will show 
him that your movements betray those of the Gars — 
if Montauran loves you.” 

Mademoiselle de Verneuil bad never listened to a 


The Chouans. 315 


more affectionate voice ; Corentin certainly seemed sin- 
cere, and spoke confidingly. The poor girl’s heart was 
so open to generous impressions that she was on the 
poiut of betraying her secret to the serpent who had 
her in his folds, when it occurred to her that she had 
no proof beyond his own words of his sincerity, and 
she felt no scruple in blinding him. 

“Yes,” she said, ‘* you are right, Corentin. I do 
love the marquis, but he does not love me —at least, I 
fear so; I can’t help fearing that the appointment he 
wishes me to make with him is a trap.” 

‘*But you said yesterday that he came as far as 
Fougéres with you,” returned Corentin. ‘+ If he had 
meant to do you bodily harm you wouldn’t be here 
now.” 

‘¢You’ve a cold heart, Corentin. You can draw 
shrewd conclusions as to the ordinary events of human 
life, but not on those of a passion. Perhaps that is 
why you inspire me with such repulsion. As you are 
so clear-sighted, you may be able to tell me why a man 
from whom I separated myself violently two days ago 
now wishes me to meet him in a house at Florigny on 
the road to Mayenne.” 

At this avowal, which seemed to escape her with a 
recklessness that was not unnatural in so passionate a 
creature, Corentin flushed, for he was still young; but 
he gave her a sidelong penetrating look, trying to 
search her soul. The girl’s artlessness was so well 
played, however, that she deceived the spy, and he an- 
swered with crafty good-humor, ‘* Shall I accompany 
you at a distance? I can take a few soldiers with me, 
and be ready to help and obey you.” 

‘* Very good,” she said; ‘‘but promise me, on your 


316 The Chouans. 


honor, — no, I don’t believe in it; by your salvation, 
— but you don’t believe in God; by your soul, — but I 
don’t suppose you have any! what pledge can you give 
me of your fidelity? and yet you expect me to trust 
you, and put more than my life—my love, my ven- 
geance — into your hands.” 

The slight smile which crossed the pallid lips of the 
spy showed Mademoiselle de Verneuil the danger she 
had just escaped. The man, whose nostrils contracted 
instead of dilating, took the hand of his victim, kissed 
it with every mark of the deepest respect, and left the 
room with a bow that was not devoid of grace. 

Three hours after this scene Mademoiselle de Ver- 
neuil, who feared the man’s return, left the town fur- 
tively by the Porte Saint-Léonard, and made her way 
through the labyrinth of paths to the cottage of Galope- 
Chopine, led by the dream of at last finding happiness, 
and also by the purpose of saving her lover from the 
danger that threatened him. 

During this time Corentin had gone to find the com- 
mandant. He had some difficulty in recognizing Hulot 
when he found him in a little square, where he was busy 
with certain military preparations. The brave veteran 
had made a sacrifice, the full merit of which it may be 
difficult to appreciate. His queue and his moustache 
were cut off, and his hair had a sprinkling of powder. 
He had changed his uniform for a goatskin, wore hob- 
nailed shoes, a belt full of pistols, and carried a heavy 
carbine. In this costume he was reviewing about two 
hundred of the natives of Fougeres, all in the same kind 
of dress, which was fitted to deceive the eye of the most 
practised Chouan. The warlike spirit of the little town 
and the Breton character were fully displayed in this 


The Chouans. OLe 


scene, which was not at all uncommon. Here and 
there a few mothers and sisters were bringing to their 
sons and brothers gourds filled with brandy, or for- 
gotten pistols. Several old men were examining into 
the number and condition of the cartridges of these 
young national guards dressed in the guise of Chouans, 
whose gayety was more in keeping with a hunting ex- 
pedition than the dangerous duty they were under- 
taking. To them, such encounters with Chouannerie, 
where the Breton of the town fought the Breton of the 
country district, had taken the place of the old chiv- 
alric tournaments. ‘This patriotic enthusiasm may pos- 
sibly have been connected with certain purchases of the 
‘*national domain.” Still, the benefits of the Revolu- 
tion which were better understood and appreciated in 
the towns, party spirit, and a certain national delight 
in war, had a great deal to do with their ardor. 

Hulot, much gratified, was going through the ranks 
and getting information from Gudin, on whom he was 
now bestowing the confidence and good-will he had 
formerly shown to Merle and Gérard. A number of 
the inhabitants stood about watching the preparations, 
and comparing the conduct of their tumultuous contin- 
gent with the regulars of Hulot’s brigade. Motionless 
and silent the Blues were awaiting, under control of 
their officers, the orders of the commandant, whose 
figure they followed with their eyes as he passed from 
rank to rank of the contingent. When Corentin came 
near the old warrior he could not help smiling at the 
change which had taken place in him. He looked like 
a portrait that has little or no resemblance to the 
original. 

**What’s all this?” asked Corentin. 


318 The Chouans. 


‘¢Come with us under fire, and you’ll find out,” 
replied Hulot. 

**Oh! I’m not a Fougtres man,” said Corentin. 

‘¢ Easy to see that, citizen,” retorted Gudin. 

A few contemptuous laughs came from the nearest 
ranks. 

‘*Do you think,” said Corentin, sharply, “that the 
only way to serve France is with bayonets?” 

Then he turned his back to the laughers, and asked 
a woman beside him if she knew the object of the 
expedition. 

** Hey ! my good man, the Chouans are at Florigny. 
They say there are more than three thousand, and they 
are coming to take Fougéres.” 

“Florigny?” cried Corentin, turning white; ‘‘ then 
the rendezvous is not there! Is Florigny on the road 
to Mayenne?” he asked. 

‘* There are not two Florignys,” replied the woman, 
pointing in the direction of the summit of La Pelerine. 

**Are you going in search of the Marquis de Mon- 
tauran?” said Corentin to Hulot. 

** Perhaps I am,” answered the commandant, curtly. 

“TTe is not at Florigny,” said Corentin. Send your 
troops there by all means; but keep a few of those 
imitation Chouans of yours with you, and wait for me.” 

‘*He is too malignant not to know what he’s 
about,” thought Hulot as Corentin made off rapidly, 
‘*he’s the king of spies.” 

Hulot ordered the battalion to start. The republican 
soldiers marched without drums and silently though the 
narrow suburb which led to the Mayenne high-road, 
forming a blue and red line among the trees and 
houses. The disguised guard followed them; but 


The Chouans. 819 


Hulot, detaining Gudin and about a score of the smart- 
est young fellows of the town, remained in the little 
square, awaiting Corentin, whose mysterious manner 
had piqued his curiosity. Francine herself told the 
astute spy, whose suspicions she changed into certainty, 
of her mistress’s departure. Inquiring of the post guard 
at the Porte Saint-Léonard, he learned that Mademoi- 
selle de Verneuil had passed that way. Rushing to the 
Promenade, he was, unfortunately, in time to see her 
movements. Though she was wearing a green dress 
and hood, to be less easily distinguished, the rapidity 
of her almost distracted step enabled him to follow 
her with his eye through the leafless hedges, and to 
guess the point towards which she was hurrying. 

‘¢ Ha!” he cried, ‘* you said you were going to Flo- 
rigny, but you are in the valley of Gibarry! Iama 
fool, she has tricked me! No matter, I can light my 
lamp by day as well as by night.” 

Corentin, satisfied that he knew the place of the 
lovers’ rendezvous, returned in all haste to the little 
square, which Iulot, resolved not to wait any longer, 
was just quitting to rejoin his troops. 

** Halt, general!” he cried to the commandant, who 
turned round. 

He then told Hulot the events relating to the marquis 
and Mademoiselle de Verneuil, and showed him the 
scheme of which he held a thread. Hulot, struck by his 
perspicacity, seized him by the arm. 

‘*God’s thunder! citizen, you are right,” he cried. 
“The brigands are making a false attack over there to 
keep the coast clear; but the two columns I sent to 
scour the environs between Antrain and Vitré have not 
yet returned, so we shall have plenty of reinforcements 


3820 The Chouans. 


if we need them; and I dare say we shall, for the Gars 
is not such a fool as to risk his life without a body- 
guard of those damned owls. Gudin,” he added, “ go 
and tell Captain Lebrun that he must rub those fellows’ 
noses at Florigny without me, and come back yourself 
in a flash. You know the paths. I7ll wait till you 
return, and then — well avenge those murders at La 
Viveticre. Thunder! how he runs,” he added, seeing 
Gudin disappear as if by magic. ‘* Gérard would have 
loved him.” 

On his return Gudin found Hulot’s little band in- 
creased in numbers by the arrival of several soldiers 
taken from the various posts in the town. The com- 
mandant ordered him to choose a dozen of his compa- 
triots who could best counterfeit the Chouans, and take 
them out by the Porte Saint-L¢onard, so as to creep round 
the side of the Saint-Sulpice rocks which overlooks the 
valley of Couésnon and on which was the hovel of Ga- 
lope-Chopine. Hulot himself went out with the rest of 
his troop by the Porte Saint-Sulpice, to reach the sum- 
mit of the same rocks, where, according to his calcula- 
tions, he ought to meet the men under Beau-Pied, wlrom 
he meant to use as a line of sentinels from the suburb 
of Saint-Sulpice to the Nid-aux-Croes. 

Corentin, satisfied with having delivered over the fate 
of the Gars to his implacable enemies, went with all 
speed to the Promenad», so as to follow with his eyes 
the military arrangements of the commandant. He 
soon saw Gudin’s little squad issuing from the val- 
ley of the Nancon and following the line of the rocks 
to the great valley, while Hulot, creeping round the 
castle of Fougéres, was mounting the dangerons path 
which leads to the summit of Saint-Sulpice. The two 


The Chouans. S21 


companies were therefore advancing on parallel lines. 
The trees and shrubs, draped by the rich arabesques 
of the hoarfrost, threw whitish reflections which enabled 
the watcher to see the gray lines of the squads in mo- 
tion. When Hulot reached the summit of the rocks, 
he detached all the soldiers in uniform from his main 
body, and made them into a line of sentinels, each com- 
municating with the other, the first with Gudin, the last 
with Hulot; so that no shrub could escape the bayonets 
of the three lines which were now in a position to hunt 
the Gars across ficld and mountain. 

The sly old wolf!” thought Corentin, as the shining 
muzzle of the last gun disappeared in the bushes. “The 
Gars is done for. If Marie had only betrayed that 
damned marquis, she and I would have been united in 
the strongest of all bonds—a vile deed. But she’s 
mine, in any case.” 

The twelve young men under Gudin soon reached the 
base of the rocks of Saint-Sulpice. Here Gudin him- 
self left the road with six of them, jumping the stiff 
hedge into the first field of gorse that he came to, while 
the other six by his orders did the same on the other 
side of the road. Gudin advanced to an apple-tree 
which happened to be in the middle of the field. Hear- 
ing the rustle of this movement through the gorse, seven 
or eight men, at the head of whom was Beau-Pied, 
hastily hid behind some chestnut-trees which topped 
the bank of this particular field. Gudin’s men did not 
see them, in spite of the white reflections of the hoar- 
frost and their own practised sight. 

**TTush! here they are,” said Beau-Pied, cautiously 
putting out his head. ‘* The brigands have more men 
than we, but we have ’em at the muzzles of our guns, 


2k 


o22 The Chouans. 


and we must n’t miss them, or, by the Lord, we are not 
fit to be soldiers of the pope.” 

By this time Gudin’s keen eyes had discovered a few 
muzzles pointing through the branches at his little squad. 
Just then eight voices cried in derision, ** Qui vive?” and 
eight shots followed. The balls whistled round Gudin 
and his men. One fell, another was shot in the arm. 
The five others who were safe and sound replied with 
a volley and the cry, ‘* Friends!” Then they marched 
rapidly on their assailants so as to reach them before 
they had time to reload. 

** We did not know how true we spoke,” cried Gudin, 
as he recognized the uniforms and the battered hats of 
his own brigade. ® Well, we behaved like Bretons, and 
fought before explaining.” 

The other men were stupefied on recognizing the 
little company. 

‘* Who the devil would have known them in those 
goatskins?” cried Beau-Pied, dismally. 

‘*Tt is a misfortune,” said Gudin, ‘* but we are all 
innocent if you were not informed of the sortie. What 
are you doing here?” he asked. 

‘A dozen of those Chouans are amusing themselves 
by picking us off, and we are getting away as best we 
can, like poisoned rats; but by dint of scrambling over 
these hedges and rocks — may the lightning blast ’em! 
—our compasses have got so rusty we are forced to take 
arest. I think those brigands are now somewhere near 
the old hovel where you see that smoke.” 

‘*Good!” cried Gudin. ‘+ You,” he added to Beau- 
Pied and his men, “ fall back towards the rocks through 
the fields, and join the line of sentinels you Il find there. 
You can’t go with us, because you are in uniform. We 


The Chouans. yas: 


mean to make an end of those curs now; the Gars is 
with them. I can’t stop to tell youmore. To the right, 
march! and don’t administer any more shots to our own 
goatskins; youll know ours by their cravats, which 
they twist round their necks and don’t tie.” 

Gudin left his two wounded men under the apple- 
tree, and marched towards Galope-Chopine’s cottage, 
which Beau-Pied had pointed out to him, the smoke 
from the chimney serving as a guide. 

While the young officer was thus closing in upon the 
Chouans, the little detachment under Hulot had reached 
a point still parallel with that at which Gudin had 
arrived. The old soldier, at the head of his men, was 
silently gliding along the hedges with the ardor of a 
young man; he jumped them from time to time actively 
enough, casting his wary eyes to the heights and listen- 
ing with the ear of ahunter to every noise. In the third 
field to which he came to he found a woman about thirty 
years old, with bent back, hoeing the ground vigorously, 
while a small boy with a sickle in his hand was knock- 
ing the hoarfrost from the rushes, which he cut and 
laid ina heap. At the noise Hulot made in jumping 
the hedge, the boy and his mother raised their heads. 
Hulot mistook the young woman for an old one, natur- 
ally enough. Wrinkles, coming long before their time, 
furrowed her face and neck; she was clothed so 
grotesquely in a worn-out goatskin that if it had not 
been for a dirty yellow petticoat, a distinctive mark of 
sex, Hulot would hardly have known the gender she 
belonged to; for the meshes of her long black hair were 
twisted up and hidden by a red worsted cap. The 
tatters of the little boy did not cover him, but left his 
skin exposed. 


324 The Chouans. 


‘“*Ho! old woman!” called Hulot, in a low voice, 
approaching her, ‘* where is the Gars?” 

The twenty men who accompanied Hulot now jumped 
the hedge. 

‘¢ Hey! if you want the Gars you ’ll have to go back 
the way you came,” said the woman, with a suspicious 
glance at the troop. 

‘* Did I ask you the road to Fougéres, old carcass? ” 
said Hulot, roughly. ‘* By Saint-Anne of Auray, have 
you seen the Gars go by?” 

“JT don’t know what you mean,” replied the woman, 
bending over her hoe. 

‘* You damned garce, do you want to have us eaten 
up by the Blues who are after us?” 

At these words the woman raised her head and gave 
another look of distrust at the troop as she replied, 
‘¢ How can the Blues be after you? I have just seen 
eight or ten of them who were going back to Fougeres 
by the lower road.” 

**One would think she meant to stab us with that 
nose of hers!” cried Hulot. ‘ Here, look, you old 
nanny-goat !” 

And he showed her in the distance three or four of 
his sentinels, whose hats, guns, and uniforms it was 
easy to recognize. 

‘* Are you going to let those fellows cut the throats 
of men who are sent by Marche-a-Terre to protect the 
Gars?” he cried, angrily. 

‘*Ah, beg pardon,” said the woman; ‘* but it is so 
easy to be deceived. What parish do you belong to?” 

‘+ Saint-Georges,” replied two or three of the men, in 
the Breton patois, “ and we are dying of hunger.” 

“Well, there,” said the woinan; ‘‘do you see that 


The Chouans. S25 


smoke down there? that’s my house. Follow the path 
to the right, and you will come to the rock above it. 
Perhaps you ll meet my man on the way. Galope- 
Chopine is sure to be on the watch to warn the Gars. 
He is spending the day in our house,” she said, proudly, 
‘* as you seem to know.” 

‘¢ Thank you, my good woman,” replied Hulot. 
‘¢ Forward, march! God’s thunder! we’ve got him,” 
he added, speaking to his men. 

The detachment followed its leader at a quick step 
through the path pointed out tothem. The wife of Galope- 
Chopine turned pale as she heard the un Catholic oath 
of the so-called Chouan. She looked at the gaiters and 
goatskins of his men, then she caught her boy in her 
arms, and sat down on the ground, saying, ‘* May the 
holy Virgin of Auray and the ever blessed Saint-Labre 
have pity upon us! Those men are not ours; their 
shoes have no nails in them. Run down by the lower 
road and warn your father; you may save his head,” 
she said to the boy, who disappeared like a deer among 
the bushes. 


Mademoiselle de Verneuil met no one on her way, 
neither Blues nor Chouans. Seeing the column of blue 
smoke which was rising from the half-ruined chimney 
of Galope-Chopine’s melancholy dwelling, her heart was 
seized with a violent palpitation, the rapid, sonorous 
beating of which rose to her throat in waves. She 
stopped, rested her hand against a tree, and watched 
the smoke which was serving as a beacon to the foes as 
well as to the friends of the young chieftain. Never 
had she felt such overwhelming emotion. 

** Ah! I love him too much,” she said, with a sort of 


526 The Chouans. 


despair. ‘* To-day, perhaps, I shall no longer be mis- 
tress of myself — ” 

She hurried over the distance which separated her 
from the cottage, and reached the courtyard, the filth of 
which was now stiffened by the frost. The big dog 
sprang up barking, but a word from Galope-Chopine 
silenced him and he wagged his tail. As she entered 
the house Marie gave a look which included everything. 
The marquis was not there. She breathed more freely, 
and saw with pleasure that the Chouan had taken some 
pains to clean the dirty and only room in his hovel. 
He now took his duck-gun, bowed silently to his guest 
and left the house, followed by his dog. Marie went to 
the threshold of the door and watched him as he took 
the path to the right of his hut. From there she 
could overlook a series of fields, the curious openings 
to which formed a perspective of gates; for the leafless 
trees and hedges were no longer a barrier to a full view 
of the country. When the Chouan’s broad hat was out 
of sight Mademoiselle de Verneuil turned round to look 
for the church at Fougéres, but the shed concealed it. 
She cast her eyes over the valley of the Couésnon, which 
lay before her like a vast sheet of muslin, the white- 
ness of which still further dulled a gray sky laden with 
snow. It was one of those days when nature seems 
dumb and noises are absorbed by the atmosphere. 
Therefore, though the Blues and their contingent were 
marching through the country in three lines, forming 
a triangle which drew together as they neared the cot- 
tage, the silence was so profound that Mademoiselle de 
Verneuil was overcome by a presentiment which added 
a sort of physical pain to her mental torture. Misfor- 
tune was in the air. 


The Chouans. S27 


At last, in a spot where a little curtain of wood closed 
the perspective of gates, she saw a young man jumping 
the barriers like a squirrel and running with astonishing 
rapidity. ‘* It is he!” she thought. 

The Gars was dressed as a Chouan, with a musket 
slung from his shoulder over his goatskin, and would 
have been quite disguised were it not for the grace 
of his movements. Marie withdrew hastily into the 
cottage, obeying one of those instinctive promptings 
which are as little explicable as fear itself. The 
young man was soon beside her before the chimney, 
where a bright fire was burning. Both were voiceless, 
fearing to look at each other, or even to make a move- 
ment. One and the same hope united them, the same 
doubt: it was agony, it was joy. 

‘* Monsieur,” said Mademoiselle de Verneuil at last, 
in a trembling voice, **‘ your safety alone has brought 
me here.” 

‘¢ My safety!” he said, bitterly. 

‘* Yes,” she answered; ‘‘ so long as I stay at Fou- 
geres your life is threatened, and I love you too well 
not to leave it. I go to-night.” 

‘¢ Leave me! ah, dear love, I shall follow you.” 

“* Follow me! —the Blues? ” 

‘* Dear Marie, what have the Blues to do with our 
love?” 

‘* But it seems impossible that you can stay with me 
in France, and still more impossible that you should 
leave it with me.” 

‘+ Ts there anything impossible to those who love?” 

‘s Ah, true! true! all is possible —have I not the 
courage to resign you, for your sake.” 

‘* What! you could give yourself to a hateful being 


328 The Chouans. 


whom you did not love, and you refuse to make the hap- 
piness of a man who adores you, whose life you fill, 
who swears to be yours, and yours only. Hear me, 
Marie, do you love me?” 

“Yes,” she said. 

*¢ Then be mine.” 

** You forget the infamous career of a lost woman; I 
return to it, I leave you—yes, that I may not bring 
upon your head the contempt that falls on mine. With- 
out that fear, perhaps — ” 

*¢ But if I fear nothing?” 

“Can I be sure of that? I am distrustful. Who 
could be otherwise in a position like mine? If the 
love we inspire cannot last at least it should be com- 
plete, and help us to bear with joy the injustice of the 
world. But you, what have you done for me? You 
desire me. Do you think that lifts you above other 
men? Suppose [ bade you renounce your ideas, your 
hopes, your king (who will, perhaps, laugh when he 
hears you have died for him, while I would die for 
you with sacred joy!) ; or suppose I should ask you 
to send your submission to the First Consul so that 
you could follow me to Paris, or go with me to 
America, — away from the world where all is vanity ; 
suppose I thus tested you, to know if you loved me for 
myself as at this moment I love you? To say all in 
a word, if I wished, instead of rising to your level, that 
you should fall to mine, what would you do?” 

‘¢ TTush, Marie, be silent, do not slander yourself,” 
he cried. “ Poor child. I comprehend you. If my first 
desire was passion, my passion now is love. Dear soul 
of my soul, you are as noble as your name, I know it, 
—as great as you are beautiful. Iam noble enough, I 


The Chouans, 329 


feel myself great enough to force the world to reccive 
you. Is it because I foresee in you the source of endless, 
incessant pleasure, or because I find in your soul those 
precious qualities which make a man forever love the 
one woman? I do not know the cause, but this [ 
know — that my love for you is boundless. I know I 
can no longer live without you. Yes, life would be 
unbearable unless you are ever with me.” 

‘¢ Ever with you!” 

‘*Ah! Marie, will you not understand me?” 

‘“* You think to flatter me by the ofter of your hand 
and name,” she said, with apparent haughtiness, but 
looking fixedly at the marquis as if to detect his inmost 
thought. ‘* How do you know you would love me six 
months hence? and then what would be my fate? No, 
a mistress is the only woman who is sure of a man’s 
heart; duty, law, society, the interests of children, are 
poor auxiliaries. If her power lasts it gives her joys 
and flatteries which make the trials of life endurable. 
But to be your wife and become a drag upon you, — 
rather than that, I prefer a passing love and a true one, 
though death and misery be its end. Yes, I could be 
a virtuous mother, a devoted wife; but to keep those 
instincts firmly in a woman’s soul the man must not 
marry her in a rush of passion. Besides, how do I know 
that you will please me tomorrow? No, I will not bring 
evil upon you; I leave Brittany,” she said, observing 
hesitation in his eyes. ‘I return to Fougéres now, 
where you cannot come to me —” 

‘“*T can! and if to-morrow you see smoke on the 
rocks of Saint-Sulpice you will know. that I shall be 
with you at night, your lover, your husband, — what 
you will that I be to you; I brave all!” 


330 The Chouans, 


” 


‘¢ Ah! Alphonse, you love me weli,” she said, pas- 
sionately, ** to risk your life before you give it to me.” 

He did not answer; he looked at her and her eyes 
fell; but he read in her ardent face a passion equal to 
his own, and he held out his arms to her. A sort of 
madness overcame her, and she let herself fall softly 
on his breast, resolved to yield to him, and turn this 
yielding to great results, — staking upon it her future 
happiness, winch would become more certain if she came 
victorious from this crucial test. But her head had 
scarcely touched her lover’s shoulder when a slight 
noise was heard without. She tore herself from his 
arms as if suddenly awakened, and sprang from the 
cottage. Her coolness came back to her, and she 
thought of the situation. 

‘* TTe might have accepted me and seorned me,” she 
reflected. ‘*¢ Ah! -if I could think that, I would kill 
him. But not yet!” she added, catching sight of Beau- 
Pied, to whom she made a sign which the soldier was 
quick to understand. He turned on his heel, pretending 
to have seen nothing. Mademoiselle de Verneuil re- 
entered the cottage, putting her finger to her lips to 
enjoin silence. 

‘They are there!” she whispered in a frightened 
voice. 

ew he?” 

‘The Blues.” 

‘* Ah! must I die without one kiss 

‘* Take it,” she said. 

He caught her to him, cold and unresisting, and gath- 
ered from her lips a kiss of horror and of joy, for while 
it was the first, it might also be the last. Then they went 
together to the door and looked cautiously out. ‘The 


b Raa 


The Chouans. 331 


marquis saw Gudin and his men holding the paths lead- 
ing to the valley. Then he turned to the line of gates 
where the first rotten trunk was guarded by five men. 
Without an instant’s pause, he jumped on the barrel of 
cider and struck a hole through the thatch of the roof, 
from which to spring upon the rocks behind the house ; 
but he drew his head hastily back through the gap he had 
made, for Hulot was on the height; his retreat was cut 
off in that direction. The marquis turned and looked 
at his mistress, who uttered a cry of despair; for she 
heard the tramp of the three detachments near the house. 

*¢ Go out first,” he said; ** you shall save me.” 

Hearing the words, to her all-glorious, she went out 
and stood before the door. The marquis loaded his 
musket. Measuring with his eye the space between the 
door of the hut and the old rotten trunk where seven 
men stood, the Gars fired into their midst and sprang 
forward instantly, forcing a passage through them. The 
three troops rushed towards the opening through which 
he had passed, and saw him running across the field 
with incredible celerity. 

‘* Fire! fire! a thousand devils! You're not French- 
men! Fire, I say!” called Hulot. 

As he shouted these words from the height above, 
his men and Gudin’s fired a volley, which was fortu- 
nately ill-aimed. The marquis reached the gate of the 
next field, but as he did so he was almost caught by 
Gudin, who was close upon his heels. The Gars re- 
doubled his speed. Nevertheless, he and his pursuer 
reached the next barrier together; but the marquis 
dashed his musket at Gudin’s head with so good an 
aim that he stopped his rush. It is impossible to de- 
pict the anxiety betrayed by Marie, or the interest of 


332 The Chouans. 


Hulot and his troops as they watched the scene. They 
all, unconsciously and silently, repeated the gestures 
which they saw the runners making. The Gars and 
Gudin reached the little wood together, but as they did 
so the latter stopped and darted behind a tree. About 
twenty Chouans, afraid to fire at a distance lest they 
should kill their leader, rushed from the copse and rid- 
dled the tree with balls. Hulot’s men advanced at a 
run to save Gudin, who, being without arms, retreated 
from tree to tree, seizing his opportunity as the Chouans 
reloaded. His danger was soon over. Hulot and the 
Blues met him at the spot where the marquis had 
thrown his musket. At this instant Gudin perceived 
his adversary sitting among the trees and out of breath, 
and he left his comrades firing at the Chouans, who had 
retreated behind a lateral hedge; slipping round them, 
he darted towards the marquis with the agility of a 
wild animal. Observing this manceuvre the Chouans 
set up a cry to warn their leader; then, having fired on 
the Blues and their contingent with the gusto of 
poachers, they boldly made a rush for them; but Ha- 
lot’s men sprang through the hedge which served them 
as a rampart and took a bloody revenge. The Chouans 
then gained the road which skirted the fields and took 
to the heights which Hulot had committed the blunder 
of abandoning. Before the Blues had time to reform, 
the Chouans were entrenched behind the rocks, where 
they could fire with impunity on the Republicans if the 
latter made any attempt to dislodge them. 

While Iulot and his soldiers went slowly towards the 
little wood to meet Gudin. the men from Fougeres 
busied themselves in rifling the dead Chouans and dis- 
patching those who still lived. In this fearful war 


The Chouans. 383 


neither party took prisoners. The marquis having made 
good his escape, the Chouans and the blues mutually 
recognized their respective positions and the useless- 
ness of continuing the fight; so that both sides pre- 
pared to retreat. 

‘*Wa! ha!” cried one of the Fougéres men, busy 
about the bodies, ** here’s a bird with yellow wings.” 

And he showed his companions a purse full of gold 
which he had just found in the pocket of a stout man 
dressed in black. 

‘*What’s this?” said another, pulling a breviary 
from the dead man’s coat. 

‘*Communion bread — he’s a priest!” cried the 
first man, flinging the breviary on the ground. 

‘* Here ’s a wretch!” cried a third, finding only two 
crowns in the pockets of the body he was stripping, “a 
cheat!” 

‘* But he’s gota fine pair of shoes!” said a soldier, be- 
ginning to pull them off. 

**You can’t have them unless they fall to your 
share,” said the Fougeres man, dragging the dead feet 
away and flinging the boots on a heap of clothing al- 
ready collected. 

Another Chouan took charge of the money, so that 
lots might be drawn as soon as the troops were all as- 
sembled. When Hulot returned with Gudin, whose 
last attempt to overtake the Gars was useless as well 
as perilous, he found about a score of his own men and 
thirty of the contingent standing around eleven of the 
enemy, Whose naked bodies were thrown into a ditch at 
the foot of the bank. 

** Soldiers!” cried Hulot, sternly. ‘* I forbid you to 


share that clothing. Form in line, quick!” 


334 The Chouans. 


*¢ Commandant,” said a soldier, pointing to his shoes, 
at the points of which five bare toes could be seen on 
each foot, ‘‘all right about the money, but those 
boots,” motioning to a pair of hob-nailed shoes with the 
butt of his gun, ** would fit me hke a glove.” 

‘* Do you want to put English shoes on your feet?” 
retorted Hulot. 

‘¢ But,” said one of the Fougeres men, respectfully, 
‘we ’ye divided the booty all through the war.” 

‘*T don’t prevent you civilians from following your 
own ways,” replied Hulot, roughly. 

‘¢ Tere, Gudin, here’s a purse with three louis,” said 
the officer who was distributing the money. ‘+ You 
have run hard and the commandant won’t prevent your 
taking it.” 

Hulot looked askance at Gudin, and saw that he 
turned pale. 

** It’s my uncle’s purse!” exclaimed the young man. 

Exhausted as he was with his run, he sprang to 
the mound of bodies, and the first that met his eyes 
was that of his uncle. But he had hardly recognized 
the rubicund face now furrowed with blue lines, and 
seen the stiffened arms and the gunshot wound before 
he gave a stifled cry, exclaiming, ‘* Let us be off, 


commandant.” 

The Blues started. Hulot gave his arm to his young 
friend. 

‘*God’s thunder!” he cried. “ Never mind, it is no 
great matter.” 

“But he is dead.” said Gudin, **dead! He was my 
only relation, and though he cursed me, still he loved 
me. If the king returns, the neighborhood will want 
my head, and my poor uncle would have saved it.” 


The Chouans. 33 


‘¢What a fool Gudin is,” said one of the men who 
had stayed behind to share the spoils; ‘* his uncle was 
rich, and he has n’t had time to make a will and disin- 
herit him.” 

The division over, the men of Fougeres rejoined the 
little battalion of the Blues on their way to the town. 


Towards midnight the cottage of Galope-Chopine, 
hitherto the scene of life without a care, was full of 
dread and horrible anxiety. Barbette and her little 
boy returned at the supper-hour, one with her heavy 
burden of rushes, the other carrying fodder for the 
cattle. Entering the hut, they looked about in vain for 
Galope-Chopine ; the miserable chamber never looked to 
them as large, so empty was it. The fire was out, and 
the darkness, the silence, seemed to tell of some dis- 
aster. Barbette hastened to make a blaze, and to 
light two oribus, the name given to candles made of 
pitch in the region between the villages of Amorique 
and the Upper Loire, and still used beyond Amboise in 
the Vendomois districts. Barbette did these things with 
the slowness of a person absorbed by one overpowering 
feeling. She listened to every sound. Deceived by 
the whistling of the wind she went often to the door of 
the hut, returning sadly. She cleaned two beakers, 
filled them with cider, and placed them on the long 
table. Now and again she looked at her boy, who 
watched the baking of the buckwheat cakes, but did 
not speak to him. The lad’s eyes happened to rest on 
the nails which usually held his father’s duck-gun, and 
Barbette trembled as she noticed that the gun was gone. 
The silence was broken only by the lowing of a cow or 
the splash of the cider as it dropped at regular intervals 


336 The Chouans. 


from the bung of the cask. The poor woman sighed 
while she poured into three brown earthenware porrin- 
gers a sort of soup made of milk, biscuit broken into 
bits, and boiled chestnuts. 

‘*They must have fought in the ficid next to the 
Bérandicre,” said the boy. 

**Go and see,” replied his mother. 

The child ran to the place where the fighting had, as 
he said, taken place. In the moonlight he found the 
heap of bodies, but his father was not among them, and 
he came back whistling joyously, having picked up 
several five-franc pieces trampled in the mud and over- 
looked by the victors. [is mother was sitting on a 
stool beside the fire, employed in spinning flax. He 
made a negative sign to her, and then, ten o’clock hav- 
ing struck from the tower of Saint-Léonard, he went to 
bed, muttering a prayer to the holy Virgin of Auray. 
At dawn, Barbette, who had not closed her eyes, gave 
acry of joy, as she heard in the distance a sound she 
knew well of hobnailed shoes, and soon after Galope- 
Chopine’s scowling face presented itself. 

‘* Thanks to Saint-Labre,” he said, *‘ to whom T owe 
a candle, the Gars is safe. Don't forget that we now 
owe three candles to the saint.” 

He seized a beaker of cider and emptied it at a 
draught without drawing breath. When his wife had 
served his soup and taken his gun and he himself was 
seated on the wooden bench, he said, looking at the 
fire: ‘*T can’t make out how the Blues got here. 
The fighting was at Florigny. Who the devil could 
have told them that the Gars was in our house; no one 
knew it but he and his handsome garce and we — ” 
Barbette turned white. 


The Chouans. ao7 


‘¢They made me believe they were the gars of Saint- 
Georges,” she said, trembling, ‘¢ it was I who told them 
the Gars was here.” 

Galope-Chopine turned pale himself and dropped his 
porringer on the table. 

‘¢T sent the boy to warn you,” said Barbette, fright- 
ened, ‘* did n't you meet him?” 

The Chouan rose and struck his wife so violently that 
she dropped, pale as death, upon the bed. 

“You cursed woman,” he said, ‘‘ you have killed 
me!” Then seized with remorse, he took her in his 
arms. ‘* Barbette!” he cried, ** Barbette !— Holy Vir- 
gin, my hand was too heavy !” 

** Do you think,” she said, opening her eyes, “that 
Marche-a-Terre will hear of it?” 

“The Gars will certainly inquire who betrayed him.” 

‘¢ Will he tell it to Marche-a-Terre ?” 

“¢Marche-d-Terre and Pille-Miche were both at 
Florigny.” 

Barbette breathed easier. 

‘+ Tf they touch a hair of your head,” she cried, ‘* T7ll 
rinse their glasses with vinegar.” 

** Ah! I can’t eat,” said Galope-Chopine, anxiously. 

His wife set another pitcher full of cider before him, 
but he paid no heed to it. Two big tears rolled from 
the woman’s eyes and moistened the deep furrows of 
her withered face. 

*¢ Listen to me, wife; to-morrow morning you must 
gather fagots on the rocks of Saint-Sulpice, to the right 
of Saint-Léonard and set fire to them. That is a signal 
agrecd upon bgtween the Gars and the old rector of 
Saint-Georges who is to come and say mass for him.” 

** Ts the Gars going to Fougeres?” 

22 


338 The Chouans. 


‘* Yes, to see his handsome garce. I have been sent 
here and there all day about it. I think he is going to 
marry her and carry her off; for he told me to hire 
horses and have them ready on the road to Saint-Malo.” 

Thereupon Galope-Chopine, who was tired out, went 
to bed for an hour or two, at the end of which time he 
again departed. Later, on the following morning, he 
returned, having carefully fulfilled all the commissions 
entrusted to him by the Gars. Finding that Marche-a- 
Terre and Pille-Miche had not appeared at the cottage, 
he relieved the apprehensions of his wife, who went off, 
reassured, to the rocks of Saint-Sulpice, where she had 
collected the night before several piles of fagots, now 
covered with the hoarfrost. The boy went with her, 
carrying fire in a broken wooden shoe. 

Hardly had his wife and son passed out of sight be- 
hind the shed when Galope-Chopine heard the noise of 
men jumping the successive barriers, and he could 
dimly see, through the fog which was growing thicker, 
the forms of two men like moving shadows. 

‘“*Tt is Marche-a-Terre and Pille-Miche,” he said, 
mentally ; then he shuddered. The two Chouans en- 
tered the courtyard and showed their gloomy faces 
under the broad-brimmed hats which made them look 
like the figures which engravers introduce into their 
landscapes. 

‘*Good- morning, Galope-Chopine,” said Marche-a- 
Terre, gravely. 

** Good-morning, Monsieur Marche-a-Terre,” replied 
the other, huinbly. ** Will you come in and drink a drop? 
I’ve some cold buckwheat cake and fregh-made butter.” 

“¢ That’s not to be refused, cousin,” said Pille-Miche. 

The two Chouans entered the cottage. So far there 





The Chouans. 339 


was nothing alarming for the master of the house, who 
hastened to fill three beakers from his huge cask of 
cider, while Marche-a-Terre and Pille-Miche, sitting on 
the polished benches on each side of the long table, cut 
the cake and spread it with the rich yellow butter from 
which the milk spurted as the knife smoothed it. Ga- 
lope-Chopine placed the beakers full of frothing cider 
before his guests, and the three Chouans began to eat ; 
but from time to time the master of the house cast side- 
long glances at Marche-a-Terre as he drank his cider. 

‘* Lend me your snuff-box,” said Marche-a-Terre to 
Pille-Miche. 

Having shaken several pinches into the palm of his 
hand the Breton inhaled the tobacco like a man who is 
making ready for serious business. 

‘¢It is cold,” said Pille-Miche, rising to shut the 
upper half of the door. 

The daylight, already dim with fog, now entered only 
through the little window, and feebly lighted the room 
and the two seats; the fire, however, gave out a ruddy 
glow. Galope-Chopine refilled the beakers, but his 
guests refused to dvink again, and throwing aside their 
large hats looked at him solemnly. ‘Their gestures and 
the look they gave him terrified Galope-Chopine, who 
fancied he saw blood in the red woollen caps they 
wore. 

‘+ Fetch your axe,” said Marche-a-Terre. 

‘¢ But, Monsieur Marche-a-Terre, what do you want 
econ?” 

** Come, cousin, you know very well,” said Pille- 
Miche, pocketing his snuff-box which Marche-a-Terre 
returned to him ; ‘* you are condemned.” 

The two Chouans rose together and took their guns. 


340 The Chouans. 


‘* Monsieur Marche-a-Terre, I never said one word 
about the Gars —”’ 

‘+ I told you to fetch your axe,” said Marche-a-Terre. 

The hapless man knocked against the wooden bed- 
stead of his son, and several five-frane pieces rolled on 
the floor. Pille-Miche picked them up. 

‘* Ho! ho! the Blues paid you in new money,” cried 
Marche-a-Terre. 

‘* As true as that’s the image of Saint-Labre,” said 
Galope-Chopine, ‘‘ I have told nothing. Barbette mis- 
took the Fougéres men for the gars of Saint-Georges, 
and that’s the whole of it.” 

“ Why do you tell things to your wife?” said Marche- 
a Terre, roughly. 

‘* Besides, cousin, we don’t want excuses, we want 
your axe. You are condemned.” 

At a sign from his companion, Pille-Miche helped 
Marche-a-Terre to seize the victim. Finding himself 
in their grasp Galope-Chopine lost all power and fell 
on his knees holding up his hands to his slayers in 
desperation. 

‘“My friends, my good friends, my cousin,” he said, 
‘¢ what will become of my little boy?” 

‘¢T will take charge of him,” said Marche-a-Terre. 

‘*My good comrades,” cried the victim, turning 
livid. ‘* Iam not fit to die. Don’t make me go with- 
out confession. You have the right to take my life, but 
you’ve no right to make me lose a blessed eternity.” 

‘That is true,” said Marche-a-Terre, addressing 
Pille-Miche. 

The two Chouans waited a moment in much uncer- 
tainty. unable to decide this case of conscience. Ga- 
lope-Chopine listened to the rustling of the wind as 


The Chouans. 3841 


though he still had hope. Suddenly Pille-Miche took 
him by the arm into a corner of the hut. 

‘** Confess your sins to me,” he said, ‘‘ and I will tell 
them to a priest of the true Church, and if there is any 
penance to do I will do it for you.” 

Galope-Chopine obtained some respite by the way in 
which he confessed his sins; but in spite of their num- 
ber and the circumstances of each crime, he came finally 
to the end of them. 

*¢ Cousin,” he said, imploringly, ‘* since I am speak- 
ing to you as I would to my confessor, I do assure 
you, by the holy name of God, that I have nothing to 
reproach myself with except for having, now and then, 
buttered my bread on both sides; and I call on Saint- 
Labre, who is there over the chimney-piece, to witness 
that I have never said one word about the Gars. No, 
my good friends, I have not betrayed him.” 

‘* Very good, that will do, cousin; you can explain 
all that to God in course of time.” 

‘* But let me say good-by to Barbette.” 

‘*Come,” said Marche-a-Terre, ‘* if you don’t want us 
tothink you worse than you are, behave like a Breton and 
be done with it.” 

The two Chouans seized him again and threw him on 
the bench where he gave no other sign of resistance 
than the instinctive and convulsive motions of an ani- 
mal, uttering a few smothered groans, which ceased 
when the axe fell. The head was off at the first blow. 
Marchea-Terre took it by the hair, left the room, 
sought and found a large nail in the rough casing of 
the door, and wound the hair about it; leaving the 
bloody head, the eyes of which he did not even close, 
to hang there. 


342 The Chouans. 


The two Chouans then washed their hands, without — 
the least haste, in a pot full of water, picked up their 
hats and guns and jumped the gate, whistling the 
‘** Ballad of the Captain.”  Pille-Miche began to sing in 
a hoarse voice as he reached the field the last verses of 
that rustic song, their melody floating on*the breeze : — 


“ At the first town 
Her lover dressed her 
All in white satin; 


* At the next town 
Her lover dressed her 
In gold and silver, 


“ So beautiful was she 
They gave her veils 
To wear in the regiment.” 


The tune became gradually indistinguishable as the 
Chouans got further away; but the silence of the coun- 
try was so great that several of the notes reached Bar- 
bette’s ear as she neared home, holding her boy by the 
hand. A peasant-woman never listens coldly to that 
song, so popular is it in the West of France, and Bar- 
bette began, unconsciously, to sing the first verses : — 


“ Come, let us go, my girl, 
Let us go to the war; 
Let us go, it is time. 


“ Brave captain, 
Let it not trouble you, 
But my daughter is not for you. 


The Chouans. 343 


“You shall not have her on earth, 
You shall not have her at sea, 
Unless by treachery. 


“ The father took his daughter, 
He unclothed her 
And flung her out to sea. 


“ The captain, wiser still, 
Into the waves he jumped 
And to the shore he brought her. 


“Come, let us go, my girl, 
Let us go to the war ; 
Let us go, it is time. 


“ At the first town 
Her lover dressed her,” 
Etc., ete. 


As Barbette reached this verse of the song, where 
Pille-Miche had begun it, she was entering the court- 
yard of her home; her tongue suddenly stiffened, she 
stood still, and a great cry, quickly repressed, came 
from her gaping lips. 

‘¢ What is it, mother?” said the child. 

‘¢ Walk alone,” she cried, pulling her hand away and 
pushing him roughly; ‘‘ you have neither father nor 
mother.” 

The child, who was rubbing his shoulder and weep- 
ing, suddenly caught sight of the thing on the nail; his 
childlike face kept the nervous conyulsion his erying 
had caused, but he was silent. He opencd his eyes 
wide, and gazed at the head of his father with a stupid 
look which betrayed no emotion; theu his tace, brutal- 


344 The Chouans. 


ized by ignorance, showed savage curiosity. Barbette 
again took his hand, grasped it violently, and dragged 
him into the house. When Pille-Miche and Marche-a- 
Terre threw their victiin on the bench one of his shoes, 
dropping off, fell on the floor beneath his neck and was 
afterward filled with blood. It was the first thing that 
met the widow's eye. 

** Take off your shoe,” said the mother to her son. 
**Put your foot in that. Good. Remember,” she 
cried, ina solemn voice, ** your father’s shoe; never put 
on your own without remembering how the Chouans 
filled it with his blood, and fill the Chouans!” 

She swayed her head with so convulsive an action 
that the meshes of her black hair fell upon her neck and 
gave a sinister expression to her face. 

**T call Saint-Labre to witness,” she said, ** that I 
vow you to the Blues. Youshall be a soldier to avenge 
your father. Kill, kill the Chouwans, and do as I do. 
Ha! they ’ve taken the head of my man, and I am 
going to give that of the Gars to the Blues.” 

She sprang at a bound on the bed, seized a little bag 
of money from a hiding-place, took the hand of the as- 
tonished little boy, and dragged him after her without 
giving him time to put on his shoe, and was on her way 
to Fougtres rapidly, without once turning her head to 
look at the home she abandoned. When they reached 
the summit of the rocks of Saint-Sulpice Barbette set 
fire to the pile of fagots, and the boy helped her to pile 
on the green gorse, damp with hoarfrost, to make the 
smoke more dense. 

‘*'That fire will last longer than your father, longer 
than I, longer than the Gars,” said Barbette, in a 
savage voice. 


= lh 


The Chouans. 345 


While the widow of Galope-Chopine and her son 
with his bloody foot stood watching, the one, with a 
gloomy expression of revenge, the other with curiosity, 
the curling of the smoke, Mademoiselle de Verneuil’s 
eyes were fastened on the same rock, trying, but in vain, 
to see her lover’s signal. The fog, which had thickened, 
buried the whole region under a veil, its gray tints ob- 
scuring even the outlines of the scenery that was near- 
est the town. She examined with tender anxiety the 
rocks, the castle, the buildings, which loomed like 
shadows through the mist. Near her window several 
trees stood out against this blue-gray background; the 
sun gave a dull tone as of tarnished silver to the sky ; 
its rays colored the bare branches of the trees, where a 
few last leaves were fluttering, with a dingy red. But 
too many dear and delightful sentiments filled Marie’s 
soul to let her notice the ill-omens of a scene so out of 
harmony with the joys she was tasting in advance. 
For the last two days her ideas had undergone a 
change. The fierce, undisciplined vehemence of her 
passions had yielded under the influence of the equable 
atmosphere which a true love gives to life. The cer- 
tainty of being loved, sought through so many perils, 
had given birth to a desire to re-enter those social con- 
ditions which sanction love, and which despair alone had 
made her leave. To love fora moment only now seemed 
to her a species of weakness. She saw herself lifted from 
the dregs of society, where misfortune had driven her, 
to the high rank in which her father had meant to place 
her. Her vanity, repressed for a time by the cruel al- 
ternations of hope and misconception, was awakened 
and showed her all the benefits of a great position. 
Born in a certain way to rank, marriage to a marquis 


846 The Chouans. 


meant, to her mind, living and acting in the sphere 
that belonged to her. Having known the chances and 
changes of an adventurous life, she could appreciate, 
better than other women, the grandeur of the feelings 
which make the Family. Marriage and motherhood 
with all their cares seemed to her less a task than a rest. 
She loved the calm and virtuous life she saw through the 
clouds of this last storm as a woman weary of virtue 
may sometimes covet an illicit passion. Virtue was to 
her a new seduction. 

‘¢ Perhaps,” she thought, leaving the window with- 
out seeing the signal on the rocks of Saint-Sulpice, “I 
have been too coquettish with him — but I knew he loved 
me! Francine, it is not a dream; to-night I shall be 
Marquise de Montauran. What have I done to deserve 
such perfect happiness? Oh! I love him, and love 
alone is love’s reward. And yet, I think God means 
to recompense me for taking heart through all my 
misery ; he means me to forget my sufferings — for you 
know, Francine, I have suffered.” 

‘* To-night, Marquise de Montauran, you, Marie? 
Ah! until it is done I cannot believe it! Who has told 
him your true goodness? ” 

‘¢ Dear child! he has more than his handsome eyes 
to see me with, he has a soul. If you had seen him, as 
I have, in danger! Oh! he knows how to love — he is 
so brave!” 

“Tf you really love him why do you let him come to 
Fougeres ?” 

‘¢We had no time to say one word to each other 
when the Blues surprised us. Besides, his coming 
is a proof of love. Can I ever have proofs enough? 
And now, Francine, do my hair.” 


The Chouans. 347 


But she pulled it down a score of times with motions 
that seemed electric, as though some stormy thoughts 
were mingling still with the arts of her coquetry. As 
she rolled a curl or smoothed the shining plaits she 
asked herself, with a remnant of distrust, whether the 
marquis were deceiving her; but treachery seemed to 
her impossible, for did he not expose himself to instant 
vengeance by entering Fougéres? While studying in her 
mirror the effects of a sidelong glance, a smile, a gentle 
frown, an attitude of anger, or of love, or disdain, she 
was seeking some woman’s wile by which to probe to 
the last instant the heart of the young leader. 

‘*You are right, Francine,” she said; ‘‘ I wish with 
you that the marriage were over. This is the last of 
my cloudy days—it is big with death or happiness. 
Ol! that fog is dreadful,” she went on, again looking 
towards the heights of Saint-Sulpice, which were still 
veiled in mist. 

She began to arrange the silk and muslin curtains 
which draped the window, making them intercept the 
light and produce in the room a voluptuous chiaro-scuro. 

‘‘ Francine,’ she said, ‘‘ take away those knick- 
knacks on the mantelpiece ; leave only the clock and the 
two Dresden vases. Ill fill those vases myself with the 
flowers Corentin brought me. Take out the chairs, I 
want only this sofa and a fauteui]l. Then sweep the 
carpet, so as to bring out the colors, and put wax 
candles in the sconces and on the mantel.” 

Marie looked long and carefully at the old tapestry 
on the walls. Guided by her innate taste she found 
among the brilliant tints of these hangings the shades 
by which to connect their antique beauty with the fur- 
niture and accessories of the boudoir, either by the har- 


348 The Chouans. 


mony of color or the charm of contrast. The same 
thought guided the arrangement of the flowers with 
which she filled tne twisted vases which decorated her 
chamber. The sofa was placed beside the fire. On 
either side of the bed, which filled the space parallel to 
that of the chimney, she placed on gilded tables tall . 
Dresden vases filled with foliage and flowers that were 
sweetly fragrant. She quivered more than once as she 
arranged the folds of the green damask above the bed, 
and studied the fall of the drapery which concealed it. 
Such preparations have a secret, ineffable happiness 
about them; they cause so many delightful emotions 
that a woman as she makes them forgets her doubts ; 
and Mademoiselle de Verneuil forgot hers. There is 
in truth a religious sentiment in the multiplicity of cares 
taken for one beloved who is not there to see them and 
reward them, but who will reward them later with the 
approving smile these tender preparations (always so 
fully understood) obtain. Women, as they make them, 
love in advance; and there are few indeed who would 
not say to themselves, as Mademoiselle de Verneuil now 
thought: ‘+ To-night I shall be happy!” That soft 
hope lies in every fold of the silk or muslin; insensibly, 
the harmony the woman makes about her gives an at- 
mosphere of love in which she breathes; to her these 
things are beings, witnesses; she has made them the 
sharers of her coming joy. Every movement, every 
thought brings that joy within her grasp. But pres- 
ently she expects no longer, she hopes no more, she 
questions silence; the slightest sound is to her an 
omen; doubt hooks its claws once more into her heart ; 
she burns, she trembles, she is grasped by a thought 
which holds her like a physical force; she alternates 


The Chouans. 349 


from triumph to agony, and without the hope of coming 
happiness she could not endure the torture. A score 
of times did Mademoiselle de Verneuil raise the win- 
dow-curtain, hoping to see the smoke rising above the 
rocks ; but the fog only took a grayer tone, which her 
excited imagination turned into a warning. At last she 
let fall the curtain, impatiently resolving not to raise it 
again. She looked gloomily around the charming room 
to which she had given a soul and a voice, asking her- 
self if it were done in vain, and this thought brought 
her back to her preparations. 

‘* Francine,” she said, drawing her into a little dress- 
ing-room which adjoined her chamber and was lighted 
through a small round window opening on a dark corner 
of the fortifications where they joined the rock terrace 
of the Promenade, ‘* put everything in order. As for 
the salon, you can leave that as it is,” she added, with 
a smile which women reserve for their nearest friends, 
the delicate sentiment of which men seldom understand. 

‘* Ah! how sweet you are!” exclaimed the little maid. 

‘¢ A lover is our beauty — foolish women that we 
are!” she replied gayly. 

Francine left her lying on the ottoman, and went 
away convinced that, whether her mistress were loved 
or not, she would never betray Montauran. 


“Are you sure of what you are telling me, old 
woman?” Hulot was saying to Barbette, who had sought 
him out as soon as she reached Fougéres. 

‘* Have you got eyes? Look at the rocks of Saint- 
Sulpice, there, my good man, to the right of Saint- 
Léonard.” 

Corentin, who was with Hulot, looked towards the 


350 The Chouans. 


summit in the direction pointed out by Barbette, and, 
as the fog was beginning to lift, he could see with some 
distinctness the column of white smoke the woman 
told of. 

“But when is he coming, old woman? — to-night, or 
this evening?” 

“ My good man,” said Barbette, ‘‘ I don’t know.” 

‘¢ Why do you betray your own side?” said Hulot, 
quickly, having drawn her out of hearing of Corentin. 

‘*Ah! general, see my boy’s foot —that’s washed 
in the blood of my man, whom the Chouans have killed 
like a calf, to punish him for the few words you got out 
of me the other day when I was working in the fields. 
Take my boy, for you’ve deprived him of his father and 
his mother; make a Blue of him, my good man, teach 
him to kill Chouans. Here, there’s two hundred 
crowns, —- keep them for him; if he is careful, they ‘ll 
last him long, for it took his father twelve years to lay 
them by.” 

Hulot looked with amazement at the pale and with- 
ered woman, whose eyes were dry. 

‘¢ But you, mother,” he said, ‘‘ what will become of 
you? you had better keep the money.” 

‘© J?” she replied, shaking her head sadly. ‘* I don’t 
need anything in this world. You might bolt me into 
that highest tower over there” (pointing to the battle- 
ments of the castle) “and the Chouans would contrive 
to come and kill me.” 

She kissed her boy with an awful expression of grief, 
looked at him, wiped away her tears, looked at him 
again, and disappeared. 

“Commandant,” said Corentin, “ this is an occasion 
when two heads are betterthan one. We know all, and 


The Chouans. SoL 


yet we know nothing. If you surround Mademoiselle 
de Verneuil’s house now, you will only warn her. 
Neither you, nor I, nor your Blues and your battalions 
are strong enough to get the better of that girl if she 
takes it into her head to save the ci-devant. The fel- 
low is brave, and consequently wily ; he is a young man 
full of daring. We can never get hold of him as he 
enters Fougéres. Perhaps he is here already. Domi- 
ciliary visit? Absurdity! that’s no good, it will only 
give them warning.” 

‘* Well,” said Hulot, impatiently, ‘‘ I shall tell the 
sentry on the Place Saint-Léonard to keep his eye on 
the house, and pass word along the other sentinels, ifa 
young man enters it; as soon as the signal reaches me 
T shall take a corporal and four men and — ” 

‘¢__ and,” said Corentin, interrupting the old soldier, 
“if the young man is not the marquis, or if the marquis 
does n't go in by the front door, or if he is already 
there, if — if — if— what then?” 

Corentin looked at the commandant with so insulting 
an air of superiority that the old soldier shouted out: 
** God’s thousand thunders! get out of here, citizen of 
hell! What have I got to do with your intrigues? If 
that cockchafer buzzes into my guard-room I shall shoot 
him; if I hear he is in a house I shall surround that 
house and take him when he leaves it and shoot him, 
but may the devil get me if I soil my uniform with any 
of your tricks,” 

‘* Commandant, the order of the ministers states that 
you are to obey Mademoiselle de Verneuil.” 

‘* Let her come and give them to me herself and I'll 
see about it.” : 

‘* Well, citizen,” said Corentin, bhanghtily, ‘* she shall 





aan The Chouans. 


come. She shall tell you herself the hour at which she 
expects the ci-devant. Possibly she won’t be easy 
till you do post the sentinels round the house.” 

‘* The devil is made man.” thought the old leader as 
he watched Corentin hurrying up the Queen’s Stair- 
case at the foot of which this scene had taken place. 
‘+ He means to deliver Montauran bound hand and foot, 
with no chance to fight for his life, and I shall be har- 
assed to death with a court-martial. However,” he 
added, shrugging his shoulders, ‘* the Gars certainly is 
an enemy of the Republic, and he killed my poor Gé- 
rard, and his death will make a noble the less — the 
devil take him!” 

He turned on the heels of his boots and went off, 
whistling the Marseillaise, to inspect his guardrooms. 


Mademoiselle de Verneuil was absorbed in one of 
those meditations the mysteries of which are buried in 
the soul, and prove by their thousand contradictory 
emotions, to the woman who undergoes them, that it is 
possible to have a stormy and passionate existence be- 
tween four walls without even moving from the ottoman 
on which her very life is burning itself away. She had 
reached the final scene of the drama she had come to 
enact, and her mind was going over and over the 
phases of love and anger which had so powerfully 
stirred her life during the ten days which had now 
elapsed since her first meeting with the marquis. A 
man’s step suddenly sounded in the adjoining room and 
she trembled ; the door opened, she turned quickly and 
saw Corentin. 

‘You little cheat!” said the police-agent, ‘* when 
will you stop deceiving? Ah, Marie, Marie, you are 


The Chouans. S53 


playing a dangerous game by not taking me into your 
contidence. Why do you play such tricks without con- 
sulting me? If the marquis escapes his fate —” 

‘¢ It won’t be your fault, will it? ” she replied, sarcas- 
tically. ‘* Monsieur,” she continued, in a grave voice, 
‘¢ by what right do you come into my house?” 

‘¢ Your house?” he exclaimed. 

‘* You remind me,” she answered, coldly, “that I 
have no home. Perhaps you chose this house deliber- 
ately for the purpose of committing murder. I shall 
leave it. I would live in a desert to get away from —” 

‘Spies, say the word,” interrupted Corentin. ‘* But 
this house is neither yours nor mine, it belongs to the 
government; and as for leaving it you will do nothing 





of the kind,” he added, giving her a diabolical look. 

Mademoiselle de Verneuil rose indignantly, made a 
few steps to leave the room, but stopped short sud- 
denly as Corentin raised the curtain of the window and 
beckoned her, with a smile, to come to him. 

** Do you see that colunn of smoke?” he asked, with 
the calmness he always kept on his livid face, however 
intense his feelings might be. 

‘*What has my departure to do with that burning 
brush?” she asked. 

“Why does your voice tremble?” he said. ‘+ You 
poor thing!” he added, in a gentle voice, ‘* I know 
all. ‘The marquis is coming to Fougéres this evening ; 
and it is not with any intention of delivering him to us 
that you have arranged this boudoir and the flowers and 
candles.” 

Mademoiselle de Verneuil turned pale, for she saw 
her lover's death in the eyes of this tiger with a human 
face, and her love for him rose to frenzy, Each hair 

23 


304 The Chouans. 


on her head caused her an acute pain she could not en- 
dure, and she fell on the ottoman. Corentin stood look- 
ing at her for a moment with his arms folded, half 
pleased at inflicting a torture which avenged him for 
the contempt and the sarcasms this woman had heaped 
upon his head, half grieved by the sufferings of a crea- 
ture whose yoke was pleasant to him, heavy as it was. 

*¢ She loves him!” he muttered. 

‘* Love him!” she cried. ‘Ah! what are words? 
Corentin! he is my life, my soul, my breath!” She 
flung herself at the feet of the man, whose silence terri- 
fied her. ‘Soul of vileness!” she cried, “I would 
rather degrade myself to save his life than degrade my- 
self by betraying him. I will save him at the cost of 
my own blood. Speak, what price must I pay you?” 

Corentin quivered. 

‘*T came to take your orders, Marie,” he said, rais- 
ing her. ‘“ Yes, Marie, your insults will not hinder my 
devotion to your wishes, provided you will promise not 
to deceive me again; you must know by this time that 
no one dupes me with impunity.” 

“Tf you want me to love you, Corentin, help me to 
save him.” 

‘* At what hour is he coming?” asked the spy, en- 
deavoring to ask the question calmly. 

** Alas, I do not know.” 

They looked at each other in silence. 

** Tam lost!” thought Mademoiselle de Verneuil. 

** She is deeciving me!” thought Corentin. “ Marie,” 
he continued, “I have two maxims. One is never to 
believe a single word a woman says to me — that’s the 
only means of not being duped; the other is to find what 
interest she has in doing the opposite of what she says, 


The Chouans. 855 


and behaving in contradiction to the facts she pretends 
to confide to me. I think that you and I understand 
each other now.” 

‘¢ Perfectly,” replied Mademoiselle de Verneuil. 
“You want proofs of my good faith; but I reserve 
them for the time when you give me some of yours.” 

*¢ Adieu, mademoiselle,” said Corentin, coolly. 

‘¢ Nonsense,” said the girl, smiling ; ‘* sit down, and 
pray don’t sulk; but if you do I shall know how to save 
the marquis without you. As for the three hundred thou- 
sand francs which are always spread before your eyes, 
I will give them to you in good gold as soon as the 
marquis is safe.” 

Corentin rose, stepped back a pace or two, and looked 
at Marie. 

‘* You have grown rich in avery short time,” he said, 
in a tone of ill-disguised bitterness. 

‘¢ Montauran,” she continued, “will make you a 
better offer still for his ransom. Now, then, prove to 
me that you have the means of guaranteeing him from 
all danger and —”’ 

*¢ Can’t you send him away the moment he arrives?” 
cried Corentin, suddenly. ‘* Hulot does not know he 
is coming, and —” He stopped as if he had said too 
much. “ But how absurd that you should ask me how 
to play a trick,” he said, with an easy laugh. ‘+ Now 
listen, Marie, I do feel certain of your loyalty. Promise 
me a compensation for all I lose in furthering your 
wishes, and I will make that old fool of a commandant 
so unsuspicious that the marquis will be as safe at Fou- 
geres as at Saint-James.” 

“Yes, I promise it,” said the girl, with a sort of 
solemnity. 


3856 The Chouans. 


’ 


‘* No, not in that way,’ 
mother.” 

Mademoiselle de Verneuil shuddered; raising a 
trembling hand she made the oath required by the man 
whose tone to her had changed so suddenly. 

* You can command me,” he said; ** don’t deceive me 
again, and you shall have reason to bless me to-night.” 

** JT will trust you, Corentin,” cried Mademoiselle de 
Verneuil, much moved. She bowed her head gently 
towards him and smiled with a kindness not unmixed 
with surprise, as she saw an expression of melancholy 
tenderness on his face. 

‘* What an enchanting creature !” thought Corentin, 
as he left the house. ‘Shall I ever get her as a means 
to fortune and a source of delight? To fling herself at 
my feet! Oh, yes, the marquis shall die! If I can't 
get that woman in any other way than by dragging her 
through the mud, Ill sink her in it. At any rate,” he 
thought, as he reached the square unconscious of his 
steps, “she no longer distrusts me. Three hundred 
thousand francs down! she thinks me grasping! Either 
the offer was a trick or she is already married to him.” 

Corentin, buried in thought, was unable to come to a 
resolution. The fog which the sun had dispersed at 
mid-day was now rolling thicker and thicker, so that he 
could hardly see the trees at a little distance. 

‘¢That’s another piece of ill-luck,’ he muttered, as 
he turned slowly homeward. ‘*It is impossible to see 
ten feet. The weather protects the lovers. How is 
one to watch a house in such a fog? Who goes 
there?” he cried, catching the arm of a boy who 
seemed to have clambered up the dangerous rocks 
which made the terrace of the Promenade. 


he said, ‘‘ swear it by your 


The Chouans. Sot 


“Tt is I,” said a childish voice. 

“Ah! the boy with the bloody foot. Do you want 
to revenge your father?” said Corentin. 

** Yes,” said the child. 

‘¢ Very good. Do you know the Gars?” 

ake ST 

‘Good again. Now, don’t leave me except to do 
what I bid you, and you will obey your mother and 
earn some big sous — do you like sous?” 

eV es.” 

** You like sous, and you want to kill the Gars who 
killed your father — well, I’ll take care of you. Ah! 
Marie,” he muttered, after a pause, ** you yourself shall 
betray him, as you engaged todo! She is too violent 
to suspect me — passion never reflects. She does not 
know the marquis’s writing. Yes, I can set a trap 
into which her nature will drive her headlong. But 
I must first see Hulot.” 

Mademoiselle de Verneuil and Francine were deliber- 
ating on the means of saving the marquis from the 
more than doubtful generosity of Corentin and Hulot’s 
bayonets. 

“T could go and warn him,” said the Breton girl. 

“But we don’t know where he is,” replied Marie ; 
‘*even I, with the instincts of love, could never find 
him.” 

After making and rejecting a number of plans Ma- 
demoiselle de Verneuil exclaimed, “ When I see him his 
danger will inspire me.” 

She thought, like other ardent souls, to act on the 
spur of the moment, trusting to her star, or to that in- 
stinct of adroitness which rarely, if ever, fails a woman. 
Perhaps her heart was never so wrung. At times she 


858 The Chouans. 


seemed stupefied, her eyes were fixed, and then, at the 
least noise, she shook like a half-uprooted tree which 
the woodman drags witha rope to hasten its fall. Sud- 
denly, a loud report from a dozen guns echoed from a 
distance. Marie turned pale and grasped Francine’s 
hand. ‘*I am dying,” she cried; ‘*they have killed 
him!” 

The heavy footfall of a man was heard in the ante- 
chamber. Francine went out and returned with a 
corporal. The man, making a military salute to Ma- 
demoiselle de Verneuil, produced some letters, the 
covers of which were a good deal soiled. Receiving 
no acknowledgment, the Blue said as he withdrew, 
‘* Madame, they are from the commandant.” 

Mademoiselle de Verneuil, a prey to horrible presen- 
timents, read a letter written apparently in great haste 
by Hulot: — 

** Mademoiselle—a party of my men have just 
caught a messenger from the Gars and have shot him. 
Among the intercepted letters is one which may be use- 
ful to you and I transmit it — ete.” 

‘* Thank God, it was not he they shot,” she ex- 
claimed, flinging the letter into the fire. 

She breathed more freely and took up the other letter, 
inclosed by Hulot. It was apparently written to Ma- 
dame du Gua by the marquis. 

‘*No, my angel,” the letter said, ‘¢I cannot go to- 
night to La Vivetiere. You must lose your wager with 
the count. I triumph over the Republic in the person 
of their beautiful emissary. You must allow that she 
is worth the sacrifice of one night. It will be my only 
victory in this campaign, for I have received the news 
that La Vendée surrenders. I can do nothing more in 


The Chouans. 359 


France. Let us go back to England — but we will talk 
of all this to-morrow.” 

The letter fell from Marie’s hands; she closed her 
eyes, and was silent, leaning backward, with her head 
on a cushion. After a long pause she looked at the 
clock, which then marked four in the afternoon, 

‘*My lord keeps me waiting,” she said, with savage 
irony. 

‘©Oh! God grant he may not come!” cried Francine. 

‘¢If he does not come,” said Marie, in a stifled tone, 
“T shall goto him. No, no, he will soon be here. 
Francine, do I look well?” 

“You are very pale.” 

‘¢ Ah!” continued Mademoiselle de Verneuil, glanc- 
ing about her, ‘this perfumed room, the flowers, the 
lights, this intoxicating air, it is full of that celestial 
life of which I dreamed — ” 

‘* Marie, what has happened?” 

‘“*T am betrayed, deceived, insulted, fooled! I will 
kill him, I will tear him bit by bit! Yes, there was al- 
ways in his manner a contempt he could not hide and 
which I would not see. Oh! I shall die of this! Fool 
that I am,” she went on laughing, ‘‘ he is coming; I 
have one night in which to teach him that, married or 
not, the man who has possessed me cannot abandon me. 
I will measure my vengeance by his offence; he shall 
die with despair in his soul. I did believe he had a 
soul of honor, but no! it is that of a lackey. Ah, 
he has cleverly deceived me, for even now it seems im- 
possible that the man who abandoned me to Pille-Miche 
should sink to such back-stair tricks. It is so base to 
deceive a loving woman, for it is so easy. He might 
have killed me if he chose, but lie to me! to me, who 


3800 The Chouans. 


held him in my thonghts so high! The scaffold! the 
scaffold! ah! could I only see him guillotined! Am 
I cruel? He shall go to his death covered with ca- 
resses, with kisses which might have blessed him for a 
lifetime — ” 

** Marie,” said Francine, gently, “be the victim of 
your lover like other women; not his mistress and his 
betrayer. Keep his memory in your heart; do not 
make it an anguish to you. If there were no joys in 
hopeless love, what would become of us, poor women 
that we are? God, of whom you never think, Marie, 
will reward us for obeying our vocation on this earth, — 
to love, and suffer.” 

“Dear.” replied Mademoiselle de Verneuil, taking 
Francine’s hand and patting it, ‘‘ your voice is very 
sweet and persuasive. Reason is attractive from your 
lips. I should like to obey you, but —” 

*¢You will forgive him, you will not betray him?” 

‘¢Tfush! never speak of that man again. Compared 
with him Corentin is a noble being. Do you hear me?” 

She rose, hiding bencath a face that was horribly calm 
the madness of her soul and a thirst for vengeance. 
The slow and measured step with which she left the 
room conveyed the sense of an irrevocable resolution. 
Lost in thought, hugging her insults, too proud to show 
the slightest suffering, she went to the guardroom at 
the Porte Saint-Léonard and asked where the com- 
mandant lived. She had hardly left her house when 
Corentin entered it. 

“Oh, Monsieur Corentin,” cried Francine, “if you 
are interested in this voung man, save him; Mademoi- 
selle has gone to give him up because of this wretched 
letter.” ) 


The Chouans. 361 


Corentin took the letter carelessly and asked, — 

** Which way did she go?” 

‘¢T don’t know.” 

‘¢ Yes,” he said, ‘*I will save her from her own 
despair.” 

He disappeared, taking the letter with him. When 
he reached the street he said to Galope-Chopine’s boy, 
whom he had stationed to watch the door, “ Which way 
did a lady go who left the house just now?” 

The boy went with him a little way and showed him 
the steep street which led to the Porte Saint-Léonard. 
‘¢ That way,” he said. 

At this moment four men entered Mademoiselle de 
Verneuil’s house, unseen by either the boy or Corentin. 

‘¢ Return to your watch,” said the latter. ‘ Play 
with the handles of the blinds and see what you can 
inside; look about you everywhere, even on the roof.” 

Corentin darted rapidly in the direction given him, 
and thought he recognized Mademoiselle de Verneuil 
through the fog; he did, in fact, overtake her just as 
she reached the guard-house. 

“ Where are you going?” he said; ‘* you are pale — 
what has happened? Is it right for you to be out 
alone? Take my arm.” 

“Where is the commandant?” she asked. 

Hardly had the words left her lips when she heard 
the movement of troops beyond the Porte Saint-Léon- 
ard and distinguished Hulot’s gruff voice in the tumult. 

“God's thunder!” he cried, ‘¢‘ I never saw such fog 
as this for a reconnaisance! The Gars must have or- 
dered the weather.” 

*¢ What are you complaining of ?” said Mademoiselle 
de Verneuil, grasping his arm, ‘* The fog will cover 


362 The Chouans. 


vengeance as well as_ perfidy. Commandant,” she 
added, in a low voice, “you must take measures at 
once so that the Gars may not escape us.” 

‘“*Is he at your house?” he asked, in a tone which 
showed his amazement. 

“* Not yet,” she replied ; ‘* but give me a safe man and 
I will send him to you when the marquis comes.” 

“That’s a mistake,” said Corentin; ‘a soldier 
will alarm him, but a boy, and I can find one, will 
not.” 

**Commandant,” said Mademoiselle de Verneuil, 
“ thanks to this fog which you are cursing, you can sur- 
round my house. Put soldiers everywhere. Place a 
guard in the church to command the esplanade on 
which the windows of my salon open. Post men on 
the Promenade; for though the windows of my bed- 
room are twenty feet above the ground, despair does 
sometimes give a man the power to jump even greater 
distances safely. Listen to what Isay. I shall prob- 
ably send this gentleman out of the door of my house ; 
therefore see that only brave men are there to meet 
him; for,” she added, with a sigh, ‘* no one denies him 
courage ; he will assuredly defend himself.” 

**Gudin!”’ called the commandant. ‘ Listen, my 
lad,” he continued in a low voice when the young man 
joined him, ‘* this devil of a girl is betraying the Gars 
to us—Iam sure I don’t know why, but that’s no 
matter. Take ten men and place yourself so as to hold 
the cul-de-sac in which the house stands; be careful 
that no one sees either you or your men,” 

** Yes, commandant, I know the ground.” 

** Very good,” said Hulot. ‘*I’ll send Beau-Pied to 
let you know when to play your sabres. Try to meet 


The Chouans. 363 


the marquis yourself, and if you can manage to kill 
him, so that I sha’n’t have to shoot him judicially, you 
shall be a lieutenant in a fortnight or my name’s not 
Hulot.” 

Gudin departed with a dozen soldiers. 

‘*Do you know what you have done?” said Corentin 
to Mademoiselle de Verneuil, in a low voice. 

She made no answer, but looked with a sort of sat- 
isfaction at the men who were starting, under com- 
mand of the sub-licutenant, for the Promenade, while 
others, following the next orders given by Hulot, were 
to post themselves in the shadows of the church of 
Saint-Léonard. 

“There are houses adjoining mine,” she said; ‘* you 
had better surround them all. Don’t lay up regrets by 
neglecting a single precaution.” 

** She is mad,” thought Hulot. 

‘*Was I not a prophet?” asked Corentin in his ear. 
‘¢ As for the boy I shall send with her, he is the little 
gars with a bloody foot; therefore —” 

He did not finish his sentence, for Mademoiselle de 
Verneuil by a sudden movement darted in the direction 
of her house, whither he followed her, whistling like a 
man supremely satisfied. When he overtook her she 
was already at the door of her house, where Galope- 
Chopine’s little boy was on the watch. 

‘* Mademoiselle,’ said Corentin, “ take the lad with 
you; you cannot have a more innocent or active emis- 
sary. Boy,’ he added, ‘‘ when you have seen the 
Gars enter the house come to me, no matter who stops 
you; you'll find me at the guard-house and I’ll give 
you something that will make you eat cake for the rest 
of your days.” 


304 The Chouans. 


At these words, breathed rather than said in the 
child’s ear, Corentin felt his hand squeezed by that of 
the little Breton, who followed Mademoiselle de Ver- 
neuil into the house. 

‘* Now, my good friends, you can come to an expla- 
nation as soon as you like,” cried Corentin when the 
door was closed. ‘* If you make love, my little mar- 
quis, it will be on your winding-sheet.” 

But Corentin could not bring himself to let that fatal 
house completely out of sight, and he went to the 
Promenade, where he found the commandant giving his 
last orders. By this time it was night. Two hours 
went by; but the sentinels posted at intervals noticed 
nothing that led them to suppose the marquis had 
evaded the triple line of men who surrounded the three 
sides by which the tower of Papegaut was accessible, 
Twenty times had Corentin gone from the Promenade 
to the guard-house, always to find that his little emissary 
had not appeared. Sunk in thought, the spy paced the 
Promenade slowly, enduring the martyrdom to which 
three passions, terrible in their clashing, subject a man, 
—love, avarice, and ambition. Eight o’clock struck 
from all the towers in the town. The moon rose late. 
Fog and darkness wrapped in impenctrable gloom the 
places where the drama planned by this man was com- 
ing to its climax. He was able to silence the struggle 
of his passions as he walked up and down, his arms 
crossed, and his eyes fixed on the windows which rose 
like the luminous eyes of a phantom above the rampart. 
The deep silence was broken only by the rippling of the 
Nancgon, by the regular and lugubrious tolling from the 
belfries, by the heavy steps of the sentinels or the Tne 
of arms as the guard was hourly relieved. 


The Chouans. 865 


‘*The night’s as black as a wolf’s jaw,” said the 
voice of Pille-Miche. 

‘* Go on,” growled Marche-a-Terre, ‘‘and don’t talk 
more than a dead dog.” 

‘*T’m hardly breathing,” said the Chouan. 

“Tf the man who made that stone roll down wants 
his heart to serve as the scabbard for my knife he ’ll do 
it again,” said Marche-a-Terre, in a low voice scarcely 
heard above the flowing of the river. 

“It was I,” said Pille-Miche. 

** Well, then, old money-bag, down on your stomach,” 
said the other, “and wriggle like a snake through a 
hedge, or we shall leave our carcasses behind us sooner 
than we need.” 

‘¢ Hey, Marche-a-Terre,” said the incorrigible Pille- 
Miche, who was using his hands to drag bimself along 
on his stomach, and had reached the level of his com- 
rade’s ear. ‘If the Grande-Garce is to be believed 
there ll be a fine booty to-day. Will you go shares 
with me?” 

“Look here, Pille-Miche,” said Marche-a-Terre stop- 
ping short on the flat of his stomach. The other 
Chouans, who were accompanying the two men, did the 
same, so wearied were they with the difficulties they had 
met with in climbing the precipice. ‘*I know you,” 
continued Marche-a-Terre, ‘* for a Jack Grab-All who 
would rather give blows than receive them when there ‘s 
nothing else to be done. We have not come here to 
grab dead men’s shoes; we are devils against devils, 
and sorrow to those whose claws are too short. The 
Grande-Garce has sent us here to save the Gars. He 
is up there; lift your dog’s nose and see that window 
above the tower.” 


3866 The Chouans. 


Midnight was striking. The moon rose, giving the 
appearance of white smoke to the fog. Pille-Miche 
squeezed Marche-a-Terre’s arm and silently showed 
him on the terrace just above them, the triangular iron 
of several shining bayonets. 

“The Blues are there already,” said Pille-Miche ; “ we 
sha’n’t gain anything by force.” 

‘*¢ Patience.” replied Marche-a-Terre ; ‘* if I examined 
right this morning, we must be at the foot of the Pape- 
gaut tower between the ramparts and the Promenade, 
—that place where they put the manure; it is like a 
feather-bed to fall on.” 

*“*Tf Saint-Labre,” remarked Pille-Miche, ‘* would 
only change into cider the blood we shall shed to-night 
the citizens might lay in a good stock to-morrow.” 

Marche-a-Terre laid his large hand over his friend's 
mouth; then an order muttered by him went from rank 
to rank of the Chouans suspended as they were in mid- 
air among the brambles of the slate rocks. Corentin, 
walking up and down the esplanade had too practised 
an ear not to hear the rustling of the shrubs and the light 
sound of pebbles rolling down the sides of the precipice. 
Marche-a-Terre, who seemed to possess the gift of see- 
ing in darkness, and whose senses, continually in ac- 
tion, were acute as those of a savage, saw Corentin ; 
like a trained dog he had scented him. Fouché’s di- 
plomatist listened but heard nothing; he looked at the 
natural wall of rock and saw no signs. If the confus- 
ing gleam of the fog enabled him to see, here and there, 
a crouching Chouan, he took him, no doubt, for a frag- 
ment of rock, for these human bodies had all the ap- 
pearance of inert nature. This danger to the invaders 
was of short duration. Corentin’s attention was di- 


The Chouans. 367 


verted by a very distinct noise coming from the other 
end of the Promenade, where the rock wall ended and a 
steep descent leading down to the Queen’s Staircase 
began. When Corentin reached the spot he saw a 
figure gliding past it as if by magic. Putting out his 
hand to grasp this real or fantastic being, who was 
there. he supposed, with no good intentions, he en- 
countered the soft and rounded figure of a woman. 

‘The devil take you!” he exclaimed, ‘‘if any one 
else had met you, you’d have had a ball through your 
head. What are you doing, and where are you going, 
at this time of night? Are you dumb? It certainly 
is a woman,” he said to himself. 

The silence was suspicious, but the stranger broke it 
by saying, ina voice which suggested extreme fright. 
“ Ah, my good man, I’m on my way back from a wake.” 

** Tt is the pretended mother of the marquis,” thought 
Corentin. ‘*I ‘Il see what she’s about. Well. go that 
way, old woman,” he replied, feigning not to recognize 
her. ‘* Keep to the left if you don’t want to be shot.” 

He stood quite still; then observing that Madame du 
Gua was making for the Papegaut tower, he followed her 
at a distance with diabolical caution. During this fatal 
encounter the Chouans had posted themselves on the 
manure towards which Marche-a-Terre had guided 
them. 

“There’s the Grande-Garce!” thought Marche-a- 
Terre, as he rose to his feet against the tower wall like 
a bear. 

“ We are here,” he said to her in a low voice. 

** Good,” she replied, ‘* there ’s a ladder in the garden 
of that house about six feet above the manure; find it, 
and the Gars is saved. Do you see that small window 


3868 The Chouans. 


up there? It is in the dressing-room; you must get to 
it. ‘This side of the tower is the only one not watched. 
The horses are ready ; if you can hold the passage over 
the Nangon, a quarter of an hour will put him out of 
danger — in spite of his folly. But if that woman tries 
to follow him, stab her.” 

Corentin now saw several of the forms he had 
hitherto supposed to be stones moving cautiously but 
swiftly. He went at once to the guardroom at the 
Porte Saint-Léonard, where he found the commandant 
fully dressed and sound asleep on a camp bed. 

“Let him alone,” said Beau-Pied, roughly, “he has 
only just lain down.” 

‘*The Chouans are here!” eried Corentin, in Hulot’s 
ear. 

‘¢ Impossible! but so much the better,” cried the old 
soldier, still half asleep ; ‘* then he can fight.” 

When Hulot reached the Promenade Corentin 
pointed out to him the singular position taken by the 
Chouans. 

‘* They must have deceived or strangled the sentries 
I placed between the castle and the Queen’s Stair- 
case. Ah! what a devil of a fog! However, patience ! 
I’ll send a squad of men under a lieutenant to the 
foot of the rock. There is no use attacking them 
where they are, for those animals are so hard they ’d 
let themseives roll down the precipice without breaking 
a limb.” 

The cracked clock of the belfry was ringing two when 
the commandant got back to the Promenade after giv- 
ing these orders and taking every military precaution 
to seize the Chouans. The sentries were doubled and 
Mademoiselle de Verneuil’s house became the centre of 


The Chouans. 869 


alittle army. Hulot found Corentin absorbed in con- 
templation of the window which overlooked the tower. 

‘¢ Citizen,” said the commandant, ‘‘ I think the ci- 
devant has fooled us; there’s nothing stirring.” 

‘* He is there,” cried Corentin, pointing to the win- 
dow. “I have seen a man’s shadow on the curtain. 
But I can’t think what has become of that boy. They 
must have killed him or locked him up. There! com- 
mandant, don’t you see that? there’s a man’s shadow ; 
come, come on! ” 

‘¢T sha’n’t seize him in bed; thunder of God! He 
will come out if he went in; Gudin won’t miss him,” 
cried Hulot, who had his own reasons for waiting till 
the Gars could defend himself. 

“¢ Commandant, I enjoin you, in the name of the law 
to proceed at once into that house.” 

“ You’re a fine scoundrel to try to make me do that.” 

Without showing any resentment at the command- 
ant’s language, Corentin said coolly: “ You will obey 
me. Here is an order in good form, signed by the 
minister of war, which will force you to do so.” He 
drew a paper from his pocket and held it out. ‘* Do 
you suppose we are such fools as to leave that girl to 
do as she likes? We are endeavoring to suppress a 
civil war, and the grandeur of the purpose covers the 
pettiness of the means.” 

“T take the liberty, citizen, of sending you to— you 
understand me? Enough. To the right-about, march ! 
Let me alone, or it will be the worse for you.” 

“But read that,” persisted Corentin. 

“Don’t bother me with your functions,” eried Hulot, 
furious at receiving orders from a man he regarded as 
contemptible. 

24 


370 The Chouans. 


At this instant Galope-Chopine’s boy suddenly ap- 
peared among them like a rat from a hole. 

‘* The Gars has started!” he cried. 

‘© Which way?” 

*¢ The rue Saint-Léonard.” 

*¢ Beau-Pied,” said Hulot in a whisper to the corpo- 
ral who was near him, ‘ go and tell your lieutenant to 
draw in closer round the house, and make ready to fire. 
Left wheel, forward on the tower, the rest of you!” he 
shouted. 

To understand the conclusion of this fatal drama we 
must re-enter the house with Mademoiselle de Verneuil 
when she returned to it after denouncing the marquis to 
the commandant. 

When passions reach their crisis they bring us under 
the dominion of far greater intoxication than the petty 
excitements of wine or opium. The lucidity then 
given to ideas, the delicacy of the high-wrought senses, 
produce the most singular and unexpected effects. 
Some persons when they find themselves under the 
tyranny of a single thought can see with extraordinary 
distinctness objects scarcely visible to others, while at 
the same time the most palpable things become to them 
almost as if they did not exist. When Mademoiselle 
de Verneuil hurried, after reading the marquis’s letter, 
to prepare the way for vengeance just as she had lately 
been preparing all for love, she was in that stage of 
mental intoxication which makes real life like the life 
of asomnambulist. But when she saw her house sur- 
rounded, by her own orders, with a triple line of bayo- 
nets a sudden flash of light illuminated her soul. She 
judged her conduct and saw with horror that she had 
committed a crime. Under the first shock of this con- 


The Chouans. 371 


viction she sprang to the threshold of the door and 
stood there irresolute, striving to think, yet unable to 
follow out her reasoning. She knew so vaguely what 
had happened that she tried in vain to remember why 
she was in the antechamber, and why she was leading 
a strange child by the hand. A million of stars were 
floating in the air before her like tongues of fire. She 
began to walk about, striving to shake off the horrible 
torpor which laid hold of her; but, like one asleep, no 
object appeared to her under its natural form or in its 
own colors. She grasped the hand of the little boy with 
a violence not natural to her, dragging him along with 
such precipitate steps that she seemed to have the mo- 
tions of a madwoman. She saw neither persons nor 
things in the salon as she crossed it, and yet she was 
saluted by three men who made way to let her pass. 

‘‘ That must be she,”’ said one of them. 

‘* She is very handsome,” exclaimed another, who 
was a priest. 

‘¢ Yes,” replied the first; “but how pale and agi- 
tated —” 

‘s And beside herself,” said the third; ‘‘ she did not 
even see us.” 

At the door of her own room Mademoiselle de Ver- 
neuil saw the smiling face of Francine, who whispered 
to her: ‘** He is here, Marie.” 

Mademoiselle de Verneuil awoke, reflected, looked at 
the child whose hand she held, remembered all, and 
replied to the girl: ‘‘Shut up that boy; if you wish 
me to live do not Ict him escape you.” 

As she slowly said the words her eyes were fixed on 
the door of her bedroom, and there they continued 
fastened with so dreadful a fixedness that it seemed as 


ote The Chouans. 


if she saw her victim through the wooden panels. Then 
she gently opened it, passed through and closed it be- 
hind her without turning round, for she saw the mar- 
quis standing before the fireplace. His dress, without 
being too choice, had the look of careful arrangement 
which adds so much to the admiration which a woman 
feels for her lover. All her self-possession came back 
to her at the sight of him. Her lips, rigid, although 
half-open, showed the enamel of her white teeth and 
formed a smile that was fixed and terrible rather than 
voluptuous. She walked with slow steps toward the 
young man and pointed with her finger to the clock. 

‘¢ A man who is worthy of love is worth waiting for,” 
she said with deceptive gayety. 

Then, overcome with the violence of her emotions, she 
dropped upon the sofa which was near the fireplace. 

‘*Dear Marie, you are charming when you are 
angry,” said the marquis, sitting down beside her and 
taking her hand, which she let him take, and entreat- 
ing a look, which she refused him. ‘* I hope,” he con- 
tinued, in a tender, caressing voice, “ that my wife will 
not long refuse a glance to her loving husband.” 

Hearing the words she turned abruptly and looked 
into his eyes. 

‘‘ What is the meaning of that dreadful look?” he 
said, laughing. ‘* But your hand is burning! oh, my 
love, what is it?” 

‘¢ Your love!” she repeated, in a dull, changed voice. 

** Yes,” he said, throwing himself on his knees be- 
side her and taking her two hands which he covered 
with kisses. ‘* Yes, my love — I am thine for life.” 

She pushed him violently away from her and rose. 
Her features contracted, she laughed as mad_ people 


The Chouans. 873 


laugh, and then she said to him: ‘** You do not mean 
one word of all you are saying, base man — baser than 
the lowest villain.” She sprang to the dagger which 
was lying beside a flower-vase, and let it sparkle be- 
fore the eyes of the amazed young marquis. ‘* Bah!” 
she said, flinging it away from her, *‘ I do not respect 
you enough to kill you. Your blood is even too vile to 
be shed by soldiers; I see nothing fit for you but the 
executioner.” 

The words were painfully uttered in a low voice, and 
she moved her feet like a spoilt child. impatiently. The 
marquis went to her and tried to clasp her. 

** Don’t touch me!” she cried, recoiling from him 
with a look of horror. 

‘¢She is mad!” said the marquis in despair. 

‘“* Mad, yes!” she repeated, ‘* but not mad enough to 
be your dupe. What would I not forgive to passion? 
but to seek to possess me without love, and to write to 
that woman —”’ 

‘* To whom have I written?” he said, with an as- 
tonishment which was certainly not feigned. 

*¢To that chaste woman who sought to kill me.” 

The marquis turned pale with anger and said, grasp- 
ing the back of a chair until he broke it, “If Madame 
du Gua has committed some dastardly wrong — ” 

Mademoiselle de Verneuil looked for the letter; not 
finding it she called to Francine. 

“ Where is that letter?” she asked. 

* Monsieur Corentin took it.” 

“Corentin! ah! Iunderstand it all; he wrote the 
letter; he has deceived me with diabolical art — as he 
alone can deceive.” 

With a piercing ery she flung herself on the sofa, 





374 The Chouans. 


tears rushing from her eyes. Doubt and confidence 
were equally dreadful now. The marquis knelt beside 
her and clasped her to his breast, saying, again and 
again, the only words he was able to utter: — 

‘* Why do you weep, my darling? there is no harm 
done; your reproaches were all love; do not weep, I 
love you — I shall always love vou.” 

Suddenly he felt her press him with almost super- 
natural force. “Do you still love me?” she said, 
amid her sobs. 

**Can you doubt it?” he replied in a tone that was 
almost melancholy. 

She abruptly disengaged herself from his arms, and 
fled, as if frightened and confused, to a little distance. 

“Do I doubt it?” she exclaimed, but a smile of gen- 
tle meaning was on her lover’s face, and the words died 
away upon her lips; she let him take her by the hand 
and lead her to the salon. There an altar had been 
hastily arranged during her absence. The priest was 
robed in his officiating vestments. The lighted tapers 
shed upon the ceiling a glow as soft as hope itself. She 
now recognized the two men who had bowed to her, the 
Comte de Bauvan and the Baron du Guénic, the wit- 
nesses chosen by Montauran. 

‘* You will not still refuse?” said the marquis. 

But at the sight she stopped, stepped backward into 
her chamber and fell on her knees; raising her hands 
towards the marquis she cried out: ‘* Pardon! pardon ! 
pardon !” 

Her voice died away, her head fell back, her eyes 
closed, and she lay in the arms of her lover and Fran- 
cine as if dead. When she opened her eyes they met 
those of the young man full of loving tenderness. 


The Chouans. 875 


“Marie! patience! this is your last trial,” he said. 

‘The last!” she exclaimed, bitterly. 

Francine and the marquis looked at each other in 
surprise, but she silenced them by a gesture. 

‘*Call the priest,” she said, ‘‘and leave me alone 
with him.” 

They did so, and withdrew. 

‘*My father,” she said to the priest so suddenly 
called to her, ‘‘in my childhood, an old man, white- 
haired like yourself, used to tell me that God would 
grant all things to those who had faith. Is that true?” 

‘¢ Tt is true,” replied the priest; ‘* all things are possi- 
ble to Him who created all.” 

Mademoiselle de Verneuil threw herself on her knees 
before him with incredible enthusiasm. 

**Oh, my God!” she cried in ecstasy, ‘‘ my faith in 
thee is equal to my love for him; inspire me! do here 
a miracle, or take my life!” 

‘* Your prayer will be granted,” said the priest. 

Marie returned to the salon leaning on the arm of 
the venerable old man. A deep and secret emotion 
brought her to the arms of her lover more brilliant than 
on any of her past days, for a serenity like that which 
painters give to the martyrs added to her face an im- 
posing dignity. She held out her hand to the marquis 
and together they advanced to the altar and knelt down. 
The marriage about to be celebrated beside the nup- 
tial bed, the altar hastily raised, the cross, the vessels, 
the chalice, secretly brought thither by the priest, the 
fumes of incense rising to the ceiling, the priest himself, 
who wore a stole above his cassock, the tapers on an 
altar in a salon, — all these things combined to form 
a strange and touching scene, which typified those times 





3876 The Chouans. 


of saddest memory, when civil discord overthrew all 
sacred institutions. Religious ceremonies then had the 
savor of the mysteries. Children were baptized in the 
chambers where the mothers were still groaning from 
their labor. As in the olden time, the Saviour went, 
poor and lowly, to console the dying. Young girls re- 
ceived their first communion in the home where they 
had played since infancy. The marriage of the marquis 
and Mademoiselle de Verneuil was now solemnized, 
like many other unions, by a service contrary to the 
recent legal enactments. In after years these mar- 
riages, mostly celebrated at the foot of oaks, were 
scrupulously recognized and considered legal. The 
priest who thus preserved the ancient usages was one 
of those men who hold to their principles in the height 
of the storm. His voice, which never made the oath 
exacted by the Republic, uttered no word throughout 
the tempest that did not make for peace. He never in- 
cited, like the Abbé Gudin, to fire and sword; but like 
many others, he devoted himsclf to the still more dan- 
gerous mission of performing his priestly functions for 
the souls of faithful Catholics. To accomplish this peri- 
lous ministry he used all the pious deceptions necessi- 
tated by persecution, and the marquis, when he sought 
his services on this occasion, had found him in one of 
those excavated caverns which are known, even to the 
present day, by the name of ‘the priest's hiding- 
place.” The mere sight of that pale and suffering face 
was enough to give this worldly room a holy aspect. 

All was now ready for the act of misery and of joy. 
Before beginning the ceremony the priest asked, in the 
dead silence, the names of the bride. 

‘¢ Marie-Nathalie, daughter of Mademoiselle Blanche 


The Chouans. STi 


de Castéran, abbess, deceased, of Notre-Dame de Séez, 
and Victor-Amédée, Due de Verneuil.” 

‘* Where born?” 

“ At La Chasterie, near Alencon.” 

‘¢T never supposed,” said the baron in a low voice to 
the count, ‘‘ that Montauran would have the folly to 
marry her. The natural daughter of a duke ! — horrid! ” 

‘¢ If it were of the king, well and good,” replied the 
Comte de Bauvan, smiling. ‘* However, it is not for me 
to blame him; I like Charette’s mistress full as well; 
and I shall transfer the war to her — though she’s not 
one to bill and coo.” 

The names of the marquis had been filled in previ- 
ously, and the two lovers now signed the document 
with their witnesses. The ceremony then began. At 
that instant Marie, and she alone, heard the sound of 
muskets and the heavy tread of soldiers, — no doubt re- 
lieving the guard in the church which she had herself 
demanded. She trembled violently and raised her eyes 
to the cross on the altar. 

‘¢ A saint at last,” said Francine, in a low voice. 

‘¢ Give me such saints, and I'll be devilishly devout,” 
added the count, in a whisper. 

When the priest made the customary inquiry of Made- 
moiselle de Verneuil, she answered by a ‘+ yes” uttered 
with a deep sigh. Bending to her husband’s ear she 
said: ‘* You will soon know why I have broken the 
oath I made never to marry you.” 

After the ceremony all present passed into the dining- 
room, where dinner was served, and as they took their 
places Jérémie, Marie’s footman, came into the room 
terrified. The poor bride rose and went to him; Fran- 
cine followed her. With one of those pretexts which 


378 The Chouans. 


never fail a woman, she begged the marquis to do the 
honors fora moment, and went out, taking Jérémie with 
her before he could utter the fatal words. 

‘* Ah! Francine, to be dying a thousand deaths and 
not to die!” she cried. 

This absence might well be supposed to have its 
cause in the ceremony that had just taken place. 
Towards the end of the dinner, as the marquis was be- 
ginning to feel uneasy, Marie returned in all the pomp 
of a bridal robe. Her face was calm and joyful, while 
that of Francine who followed her had terror imprinted 
on every feature, so that the guests might well have 
thought they saw in these two women a fantastic pic- 
ture by Salvator Rosa, of Life and Death holding each 
other by the hand. 

‘¢ Gentlemen,” said Marie to the priest, the baron, and 
the count, ‘* you are my guests for the night. I find 
you cannot leave Fougeres; it would be dangerous to 
attempt it. My good maid has instructions to make 
you comfortable in your apartments. No, you must 
not rebel,” she added to the priest, who was about to 
speak. ‘*T hope you will not thwart a woman on her 
wedding-day.” 

An hour later she was alone with her husband in the 
room she had so joyously arranged a few hours earlier. 
They had reached that fatal bed where, like a tomb, so 
many hopes are wrecked, where the waking to a happy 
life is all uncertain, where love is born or dies, accord- 
ing to the natures that are tried there. Marie looked 
at the clock. Six hours to live.” she murmured. 

‘“*Can I have slept?” she cried towards morning, 
wakening with one of those sudden movements which 
rouse us when we have made ourselves a promise to 


The Chouans. 379 


wake at a certain hour. ‘* Yes, I have slept,” she 
thought, seeing by the light of the candles that the 
hands of the clock were pointing to two in the morning. 
She turned and looked at the sleeping marquis, lying 
like a child with his head on one hand, the other clasp- 
ing his wife’s hand, his lips half smiling as though he 
had fallen asleep while she kissed him. 

‘¢ Ah!” she whispered to herself, “he sleeps like an 
infant; he does not distrust me — me, to whom he has 
given a happiness without a name.” 

She touched him softly and he woke, continuing to 
smile. He kissed the hand he held and looked at the 
wretched woman with eyes so sparkling that she could 
not endure their light and slowly lowered her large eye- 
lids. Her husband might justly have accused her of 
coquetry if she were not concealing the terrors of her 
soul by thus evading the fire of his looks. Together 
they raised their charming heads and made each other 
a sign of gratitude for the pleasures they had tasted ; 
but after a rapid glance at the beautiful picture his wife 
presented, the marquis was struck with an expression 
on her face which seemed to him melancholy, and he 
said in a tender voice, ‘* Why sad, dear love? ” 

‘* Poor Alphonse,’ she answered, ‘* do you know to 
what I have led you?” 

‘¢'To happiness.” 

*¢ To death ! ” 

Shuddering with horror she sprang from the bed; 
the marquis, astonished, followed her. His wife mo- 
tioned him to a window and raised the curtain, pointing 
as she did so to a score of soldiers. The moon had 
scattered the fog and was now casting her white light 
on the muskets and the uniforms, on the impassible 


880 The Chouans. 


Corentin pacing up and down like a jackal waiting for 
his prey, on the commandant standing still, his arms 
crossed, his nose in the air, his lips curling, watchful 
and displeased. 

‘*Come, Marie, leave them and come back to me.” 

‘¢ Why do you smile? I placed them there.” 

** You are dreaming.” 

ig 3 Se Pas 

They looked at each other fora moment. The mar- 
quis divined the whole truth, and he took her in his 
arms. ‘* No matter!” he said, ‘* I love you still.” 

‘* All is not lost!” cried Marie, “it cannot be! 
Alphonse,” she said after a pause, “there is hope.” 

At this moment they distinctly heard the owl’s ery, 
and Francine entered from the dressing-room. 

‘* Pierre has come!” she said with a joy that was 
like delirium. 

The marquise and Francine dressed Montauran in 
Chouan clothes with that amazing rapidity that belongs 
only to women. As soon as Marie saw her husband 
loading the gun Francine had brought in she slipped 
hastily from the room with a sign to her faithful maid. 
Francine then took the marquis to the dressing-room 
adjoining the bed-chamber. The young man seeing a 
large number of sheets knotted firmly together, per- 
ceived the means by which the girl expected him to 
escape the vigilance of the soldiers. 

‘*T can’t get through there,” he said, examining the 
bull’s-eye window. 

At that instant it was darkened by a thickset figure, 
and a hoarse voice, known to Francine, said in a whis- 
per, ‘‘ Make haste, general, those rascally Blues are 
stirring.” 


The Chouans. 381 


“Oh! one more kiss,” said a trembling voice beside 
him. 

The marquis, whose feet were already on the liberat- 
ing ladder, though he was not wholly through the win- 
dow, felt his neck clasped with a despairing pressure. 
Seeing that his wife had put on his clothes, he tried to 
detain her; but she tore herself roughly from his 
arms and he was forced to descend. In his hand he 
held a fragment of some stuff which the moonlight 
showed him was a piece of the waistcoat he had worn 
the night before. 

‘Halt! fire!” 

These words uttered by Hulot in the midst of a silence 
that was almost horrible broke the spell which seemed 
to hold the men and their surroundings. <A volley of 
balls coming from the valley and reaching to the foot of 
the tower succeeded the discharges of the Blues posted 
on the Promenade. ‘The fire of the Republicans was un- 
remitting. Nota cry came from the Chouans. Between 
each discharge the silence was frightful. 

But Corentin had heard a fall from the ladder on the 
precipice side of the tower, and he suspected some ruse. 

‘* None of those animals are growling,” he said to 
Hulot; ‘* our lovers are capable of fooling us on this 
side, and escaping themselves on the other.” 

The spy, to clear up the mystery, sent for torches; 
Hulot, understanding the force of Corentin’s supposition, 
and hearing the noise of a serious struggle in the di- 
rection of the Porte Saint-Léonard, rushed to the 
guard-house exclaiming: ‘*That’s true, they won’t 
separate.” 

*¢ His head is well riddled, commandant,” said Bean- 
Pied, who was the first to meet him, ‘‘ but he killed 


882 The Chouans. 


Gudin, and wounded two men. Ha! the savage; he 
got through three ranks of our best men and would 
have reached the fields if it hadn’t been for the sentry 
at the gate who spitted him on his bayonet.” 

The commandant rushed into the guard-room and saw 
on a camp bedstead a bloody body which had just been 
laid there. He went up to the supposed marquis, 
raised the hat which covered the face, and fell into a 
chair. 

‘* I suspected it!” he cried, crossing his arms vio- 
lently ; ‘* she kept him, cursed thunder! too long.” 

The soldiers stood about, motionless. The com- 
mandant himself unfastened the long black hair of a 
woman, Suddenly the silence was broken by the 
tramp of men and Corentin entered the guardroom, 
preceding four soldiers who bore on their guns, crossed 
to make a litter, the body of Montauran, who was shot 
in the thighs and arms. They laid him on the bedstead 
beside his wife. He saw her, and found strength to 
clasp her hand with a convulsive gesture. The dying 
woman turned her head, recognized her husband, 
and shuddered with a spasin that was horrible to see, 
murmuring in a voice almost extinct: ‘* A day with- 
out a morrow ! God heard me too well.” 

“ Commandant,” said the marquis, collecting all his 
strength, and still holding Marie’s hand, ‘*I count 
on your honor to send the news of my death to my 
young brother, who is now in London. Write him 
that if he wishes to obey my last injunction he will 
never bear arms against his country —ncither must he 
abandon the king’s service.” 

“Tt shall be done,” said Hulot, pressing the hand of 
the dying man. 


The Chouans. 3883 


“Take them to the nearest hospital,” cried Corentin. 

Hulot took the spy by the arm with a grip that left 
the imprint of his fingers on the flesh. 

‘Out of this camp!” he cried; ‘* your business is 
done here. Look well at the face of Commander Hulot, 
and never find yourself again in his way if you don’t 
want your belly to be the scabbard of his blade — ” 

And the old soldier flourished his sabre. 

*¢'That’s another of the honest men who will never 
make their way,” said Corentin to himself when he was 
some distance from the guardroom. 

The marquis was still able to thank his gallant ad- 
versary by a look marking the respect which all soldiers 
feel for loyal enemies. 


In 1827 an old man accompanied by his wife was 
buying cattle in the market-place of Fougeres. Few 
persons remembered that he had killed a hundred or 
more men, and that his former name was Marche-a- 
Terre. <A person to whom we owe important informa- 
tion about all the personages of this drama saw him 
there, leading a cow, and was struck by his simple, in- 
genuous air, which led her to remark, ** That must be 
a worthy man.” 

As for Cibot, otherwise called Pille-Miche, we already 
know his end. It is likely that Marche-a-Terre made 
some attempt to save his comrade from the scaffold ; pos- 
sibly he was in the square at Alencon on the occasion 
of the frightful tamult which was one of the events of the 
famous trial of Rifoél, Briond, and la Chanterie. 


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A PASSION IN. THE DESERT. 


‘©THE sight was fearful!” she exclaimed, as we left 
the menagerie of Monsieur Martin. 

She had been watching that daring speculator as he 
went through his wonderful performance in the den of 
the hyena. 

‘* How is it possible,” she continued, ** to tame those 
animals so as to be certain that he can trust them?” 

*¢ You think it a problem,” I answered, interrupting 
her, ‘‘ and yet it is a natural fact.” 

** Oh!” she cried, an incredulous smile flickering on 
her lip. 

**Do you think that beasts are devoid of passions?” 
I asked. ‘* Let me assure you that we teach them all the 
vices and virtues of our own state of civilization.” 

She looked at me in amazement. 

‘* The first time I saw Monsieur Martin,” I added, ‘I 
exclaimed, as you do, with surprise. I happened to be 
sitting beside an old soldier whose right leg was ampu- 
tated, and whose appearance had attracted my notice as 
IT entered the building. Wis face, stamped with the scars 
of battle, wore the undaunted look of a veteran of the 
wars of Napoleon. Moreover, the old hero had a frank 
and joyous manner which attracts me wherever I meet it. 
He was, doubtless, one of those old campaigners whom 
nothing can surprise, who find something to laugh at in 
the last contortions of a comrade, and will bury a friend 


388 A Passion in the Desert. 


or rifle his body gayly ; challenging bullets with indiffer- 
ence ; making short shrift for themselves or others ; and 
fraternizing, as a usual thing, with the devil. After look- 
ing very attentively at the proprietor of the menagerie 
as he entered the den, my companion curled his lip with 
that expression of satirical contempt which well-in- 
formed men sometimes put on to mark the difference 
between themselves and dupes. As I uttered my ex- 
clamation of surprise at the coolness and courage of 
Monsieur Martin, the old soldier smiled, shook his 
head, and said with a knowing glance, ‘An old story!’ 

‘¢¢ How do you mean, an old story?’ I asked. ‘If 
you could explain the secret of this mysterious power, 
I should be greatly obliged to you.’ 

‘* After a while, during which we became better ac- 
quainted, we went to dine at the first restaurant we 
could find after leaving the menagerie. <A _ bottle of 
champagne with our dessert brightened the recollections 
of the old man and made them singularly vivid. Ile 
related to me a circumstance in his early history which 
proved that he had ample cause to pronounce Monsieur 
Martin’s performance ‘an old story.’ ” 

When we reached her house, she was so persuasive 
and captivating, and made me so many pretty promises, 
that I consented to write down for her benefit the story 
told me by the old hero. On the foilowing day I sent 
her this episode of an historical epic, which might be 
entitled, ‘* The French in Egypt.” 


At the time of General Desaix’s expedition to Upper 
Egypt a Provengal soldier, who had fallen into the hands 


A Passion in the Desert. 889 


of the Maugrabins, was marched by those tireless Arabs 
aeross the desert which lies beyond the cataracts of the 
Nile. To put sufficient distance between themselves 
and the French army and thus insure their safety, the 
Maugrabins made a forced march, and did not halt un- 
til after nightfall. They then camped about a well 
shaded with palm-trees, near which they had previously 
buried a stock of provisions. Not dreaming that the 
thought of escape could enter their captive’s mind, they 
merely bound his wrists, and lay down to sleep them- 
selves, after eating a few dates and giving their horses 
a feed of barley. When the bold Provencal saw his 
enemies too soundly asleep to watch him, he used his 
teeth to pick up a scimitar, with which, steadying the 
blade by means of his knees, he contrived to cut through 
the cord which bound his hands, and thus recovered 
his liberty. He at once seized a carbine and a pon- 
iard, took the precaution to lay in a supply of dates, a 
small bag of barley, some powder and ball, buckled on 
the scimitar, mounted one of the horses, and spurred 
him in the direction where he supposed the French army 
to be. Impatient to meet the outposts, he pressed the 
horse, which was already wearied, so severely that the 
poor animal fell dead with his flanks torn, leaving the 
Frenchman alone in the midst of the desert. 

After marching for a long time through the sand with 
the dogged courage of an escaping galley-slave, the sol- 
dier was forced to halt as the darkness drew on; for 
his utter weariness compelled him to rest, though the ex- 
quisite sky of an Eastern night might well have tempted 
him to continue the journey. Happily he had reached a 
slight elevation, at the top of which a few palm-trees 


390 A Passion in the Desert. 


shot upward, whose leafage, seen from a long distance 
against the sky, had helped to sustain his hopes. Wis 
fatigue was so great that he threw himself down ona 
block of granite, cut by Nature into the shape of a camp- 
bed, and slept heavily, without taking the least precau- 
tion to protect himself while asleep. He accepted the 
loss of his life as inevitable, and his last waking thought 
was one of regret for having left the Maugrabins, 
whose nomad life began to charm him now that he 
was far away from them and from every other hope 
of succor. 

He was wakened by the sun, whose pitiless beams 
falling vertically upon the granite rock produced an in- 
tolerable heat. The Provencal had ignorantly flung 
himself down in a contrary direction to the shadows 
thrown by the verdant and majestic fronds of the palm- 
trees. He gazed at these solitary monarchs and shud- 
dered. They recalled to his mind the graceful shafts 
crowned with long weaving leaves which distinguish the — 
Saracenic columns of the cathedral of Arles. The thought 
overcame him, and when, after counting the trees, he 
threw his eyes upon the scene around him, an agony of 
despair convulsed his soul. He saw a limitless ocean. 
The sombre sands of the desert stretched out till lost to 
sight in all directions; they glittered with dark lustre 
like a steel blade shining in the sun. Ile could not tell 
if it were an ocean or a chain of lakes that lay mirrored 
before him. A hot vapor swept in waves above the 
surface of this heaving continent. The sky had the Ori- 
ental glow of translucent purity which disappoints be- 
cause it leaves nothing for the imagination to desire, 
The heavens and the earth were both on fire. Silence 


A Passion in the Desert. 391 


added its awful and desolate majesty. Infinitude, im- 
mensity pressed down upon the soul on every side; not 
a cloud in the sky, not a breath in the air, not a rift on 
the breast of the sand, which was rufiled only with little 
ridges scarcely rising above its surface. Far as the eye 
could reach the horizon fell away into space, marked by 
a slender line, siim as the edge of a sabre, — like as in 
summer seas a thread of light parts this earth from the 
heaven it meets. 

The Provengal clasped the trunk of a palm-tree as if 
it were the body of a friend. Sheltered from the sun 
by its straight and slender shadow, he wept; and pres- 
ently sitting down he remained motionless, contemplat- 
ing with awful dread the implacable nature stretched 
out before him. He cried aloud, as if to tempt the sol- 
itude to answer him. His voice, lost in the hollows of 
the hillock, sounded afar with a thin resonance that 
returned no echo; the echo came from the soldier’s 
heart. He was twenty-two years old, and he loaded his 
carbine. 

‘¢ Time enough!” he muttered, as he put the liber- 
ating weapon on the sand beneath him. 

Gazing by turns at the burnished blackness of the 
sand and the blue expanse of the sky, the soldier 
dreamed of France. He smelt in fancy the gutters of 
Paris ;; he remembered the towns through which he had 
passed, the faces of his comrades, and the most trifling 
incidents of his life. His southern imagination saw 
the pebbles of his own Provence in the undulating play 
of the heated air, as it seemed to roughen the far-reach- 
ing surface of the desert. Dreading the dangers of this 
eruel mirage, he went down the little hill on the side 


$92 A Passion in the Desert. 


opposite to that by which he had gone up the night before, 
His joy was great when he discovered a natural grotto, 
formed by the immense blocks of granite which made a 
foundation for the rising ground. The remnants of a 
mat showed that the place had once been inhabited, 
and close to the entrance were a few palim-trees loaded 
with fruit. The instinct which binds men to life woke 
in his heart. He now hoped to live until some Maugra- 
bin should pass that way; possibly he might even hear 
the roar of cannon, for Bonaparte was at that time 
overrunning Egypt. Encouraged by these thoughts, 
the Frenchman shook down a cluster of the ripe fruit 
under the weight of which the palms were bending ; and 
as he tasted this unhoped-for manna, he thanked the 
former inhabitant of the grotto for the cultivation of the 
trees, which the rich and luscious flesh of the fruit amply 
attested. Like a true Provencal, he passed from the 
gloom of despair to a joy that was half insane. He ran 
back to the top of the hill, and busied himself for the 
rest of the day in cutting down one of the sterile trees 
which had been his shelter the night before. 

Some vague recollection made him think of the wild 
beasts of the desert, and foresecing that they would come 
to drink at a spring which bubbled through the sand at 
the foot of the rock, he resolved to protect his hermitage 
by felling a tree across the entrance. Notwithstanding 
his eagerness, and the strength which the fear of being 
attacked while asleep gave to his muscles, he was un- 
able to cut the palm-tree in pieces during the day; 
but he succeeded in bringing it down. ‘Towards even- 
ing the king of the desert fell; and the noise of his 
fall, echoing far, was like a moan from the breast of 


A Passion tn the Desert. 393 


Solitude. The soldier shuddered, as though he had 
heard a voice predicting evil. But, like an heir who does 
not long mourn a parent, he stripped from the beauti- 
ful tree the arching green fronds — its poetical adorn- 
ment — and made a bed of them in his refuge. Then, 
tired with his work and by the heat of the day, he fell 
asleep beneath the red vault of the grotto. 

In the middle of the night his sleep was broken by a 
strange noise. He sat up; the deep silence that reigned 
everywhere enabled him to hear the alternating rhythm 
of a respiration whose savage vigor could not belong to 
a human being. <A terrible fear, increased by the dark- 
ness, by the silence, by the rush of his waking fancies, 
numbed his heart. He felt the contraction of his hair, 
which rose on end as his eyes, dilating to their full 
strength, beheld through the darkness two faint amber 
lights. At first he thought them an optical delusion ; 
but by degrees the clearness of the night enabled him to 
distinguish objects in the grotto, and he saw, within two 
fect of him, an enormous animal lying at rest. 

Was ita lion? Wasitatiger? Was it a crocodile? 
The Provencal had not enough education to know in 
what sub-species he ought to class the intruder; but his 
terror was all the greater because his ignorance made it 
vague. He endured the cruel trial of listening, of striv- 
ing to catch the peculiarities of this breathing without 
losing one of its inflections, and without daring to make 
the slightest movement. A strong odor, like that ex- 
haled by foxes, only far more pungent and penctrating, 
filled the grotto. When the soldier had tasted it, so to 
speak, by the nose, his fear became terror; he could no 
longer doubt the nature of the terrible companion whose 





394 A Passion in the Desert. 


royal lair he had taken for a bivouac. Before long, the 
reflection of the moon, as it sank to the horizon, lighted 
up the den and gleamed upon the shining, spotted skin 
of a panther. 

The lion of Egypt lay asleep, curled up like a dog, 
the peaceable possessor of a kennel at the gate of a 
mansion; its eyes, which had opened for a moment, 
were now closed; its head was turned towards the 
Frenchman. <A hundred conflicting thoughts rushed 
through the mind of the panther’s prisoner. Should 
he kill it with a shot from his musket? But ere the 
thought was formed, he saw there was no room to take 
aim; the muzzle would have gone beyond the animal. 
Suppose he were to wake it? The fear kept him motion- 
less. As he heard the beating of his heart through the 
dead silence, he cursed the strong pulsations of his vig- 
orous blood, lest they should disturb the sleep which 
gave him time to think and plan for safety. Twice he 
put his hand on his scimitar, with the idea of striking off 
the head of his enemy; but the difficulty of cutting 
through the close-haired skin made him renounce the 
bold attempt. Suppose he missed his aim? It would, 
he knew, be certain death. We preferred the chances 
of a struggle, and resolved to await the dawn. It was 
not long in coming. <As daylight broke, the French- 
man was able to examine the animal. Its muzzle was 
stained with blood. ‘*It has eaten a good meal,” 
thought he, not caring whether the feast were human 
flesh or not; ‘it will not be hungry when it wakes.” 

It was a female. The fur on the belly and on the 
thighs was of sparkling whiteness. Several little spots 
like velvet made pretty bracelets round her paws. ‘The 


A Passion in the Desert. 395 


muscular tail was also white, but it terminated with black 
rings. The fur of the back, yellow as dead gold and 
very soft and glossy, bore the characteristic spots, 
shaded like a full-blown rose, which distinguish the 
panther from all other species of felis. This terrible 
hostess lay tranquilly snoring, in an attitude as easy 
and graceful as that of a cat on the cushions of an otto- 
man. Her bloody paws, sinewy and well-armed, were 
stretched beyond her head, which lay upon them; and 
from her muzzle projected a few straight hairs called 
whiskers, which shimmered in the early light like silver 
wires. If he had seen her lying thus imprisoned in a 
cage, the Provencal would have admired the creature’s 
grace, and the strong contrasts of vivid color which 
gave to her robe an imperial splendor; but as it was, 
his sight was jaundiced by sinister forebodings. The 
presence of the panther, though she was still asleep, had 
the same effect upon his mind as the magnetic eyes of a 
snake produce, we are told, upon the nightingale. The 
soldier’s courage oozed away in presence of this silent 
peril, though he was a man who gathered nerve before 
the mouths of cannon belching grape-shot. And yet, 
ere long, a bold thought entered his mind, and checked 
the cold sweat which was rolling from his brow. Roused 
to action, as some men are when, driven face to face 
with death, they defy it and offer themselves to their 
doom, he saw a tragedy before him, and he resolved to 
play his part with honor to the last. 

‘* Yesterday,” he said, ** the Arabs might have killed 
nie,” 

Regarding himself as dead, he waited bravely, but 
with anxious curiosity, for the waking of his enemy. 


396 A Passion in the Desert. 


When the sun rose, the panther suddenly opened her 
eyes; then she stretched her paws violently, as if to un- 
limber them from the cramp of their position. Pres- 
ently she yawned and showed the frightful armament of 
her teeth, and her cloven tongue, rough as a grater. 

‘*She is like a dainty woman,” thought the French- 
man, watching her as she rolled and turned on her side 
with an easy and coquettish movement. She licked the 
blood from her paws, and rubbed her head with a reit- 
erated movement full of grace. 

“ Well done! dress yourself prettily, my little woman,” 
said the Frenchman, who recovered his gayety as soon 
as he had recovered his courage. ‘* We are going to 
bid each other good-morning ;” and he felt for the short 
poniard which he had taken from the Maugrabins. 

At this instant the panther turned her head towards 
the Frenchman and looked at him fixedly, without mov- 
ing. The rigidity of her metallic eyes and their insup- 
portable clearness made the Provencal shudder. ‘The 
beast moved towards him; he looked at her caressingly, 
with a soothing glance by which he hoped to magnetize 
her. He let her come quite close to him before he 
stirred; then, with a touch as gentle and loving as he 
might have used to a pretty woman, he slid his hand 
along her spine from the head to the flanks, scratching 
with his nails the flexible vertebrae which divide the 
yellow back of a panther. The creature drew up her 
tail voluptuously, her eyes softened, and when for the 
third time the Frenchman bestowed this self-interested 
caress, she gave vent to a purr like that with which a 
eat expresses pleasure ; but it issued from a throat so 
deep and powerful that the sound echoed through the 





A Passion in the Desert. 397 


grotto like the last chords of an organ rolling along the 
roof of a church. The Provengal, perceiving the value 
of his caresses, redoubled them, until they had com- 
pletely soothed and lulled the imperious courtesan. 

When he felt that he had subdued the ferocity of his 
capricious companion, whose hunger had so fortunately 
been appeased the night before, he rose to leave the 
grotto. The panther let him go; but as soon as he 
reached the top of the little hill she bounded after him 
with the lightness of a bird hopping from branch to 
branch, and rubbed against his legs, arching her back 
with the gesture of a domestic cat. Then looking at 
her guest with an eye that was growing less inflexible, 
she uttered the savage cry which naturalists liken to the 
noise of a saw. ; 

** My lady is exacting,” cried the Frenchman, smiling. 
He began to play with her ears and stroke her belly, 
and at last he scratched her head firmly with his nails. 
Encouraged by success, he tickled her skull with the 
point of his dagger, looking for the right spot where to 
stab her; but the hardness of the bone made him pause, 
dreading failure. 

The sultana of the desert acknowledged the talents of 
her slave by lifting her head and swaying her neck to 
his caresses, betraying satisfaction by the tranquillity of 
her relaxed attitude. The Frenchman suddenly per- 
ceived that he could assassinate the fierce princess at a 
blow, if be struck her in the throat; and he had raised 
the weapon, when the panther, surfcited perbaps with 
his caresses, threw herself gracefully at his feet. glane- 
ing up at him with a look in which, despite her natural 
ferocity, a flicker of kindness could be seen. The poor 


398 A Passion in the Desert. 


Provencal, frustrated for the moment, ate his dates as 
he leaned against a palm-tree, casting from time to time 
an interrogating eye across the desert in the hope of 
discerning rescue from afar, and then lowering it upon 
his terrible companion, to watch the chances of her un- 
certain clemency. Each time that he threw away a 
date-stone the panther eyed the spot where it fell with 
an expression of keen distrust; and she examined the 
Frenchman with what might be called commercial pru- 
dence. ‘The examination, however, seemed favorable, 
for when the man had finished his meagre meal she 
licked his shoes and wiped off the dust, which was caked 
into the folds of the leather, with her rough and power- 
ful tongue. 

‘+ How will it be when she is hungry? ” thought the 
Provencal. In spite of the shudder which this reflection 
cost him, his attention was attracted by the symmetrical 
proportions of the animal, and he began to measure them 
with his eye. She was three feet in height to the shoul- 
der, and four feet long, not including the tail. That 
powerful weapon, which was round as a club, meas- 
ured three feet. The head, as large as that of a lioness, 
was remarkable for an expression of crafty intelligence ; 
the cold cruelty of a tiger was its ruling trait, and yet 
it bore a vague resemblance to the face of an artful wo- 
man. As the soldier watched her, the countenance of 
this solitary queen shone with savage gayety like that of 
Nero in his cups: she had slaked her thirst for blood, 
and now wished for play. The Frenchman tried to come 
and go, and accustom her to his movements. ‘The pan- 
ther left him free, as if contented to follow him with her 
eyes, seeming, however, less like a faithful dog watching 


A Passion in the Desert. 399 


his master’s movements with affection, than a huge 
Angora cat uneasy and suspicious of them. A few steps 
brought him to the spring, where he saw the carcass of 
his horse, which the panther had evidently carried there. 
Only two thirds was eaten. The sight reassured the 
Frenchman ; for it explained the absence of his terrible 
companion and the forbearance which she had shown to 
him while asleep. 

This first good luck encouraged the reckless soldier 
as he thought of the future. The wild idea of making 
a home with the panther until some chance of escape 
occurred entered his mind, and he resolved to try every 
means of taming her and of turning her good-will to 
account. With these thoughts he returned to her side, 
and noticed joyfully that she moved her tail with an 
almost imperceptible motion. Ie sat down beside her 
fearlessly, and they began to play with each other. He 
held her paws and her muzzle, twisted her ears, threw 
her over on her back, and stroked her soft, warm flanks. 
She allowed him to do so; and when he began to smooth 
the fur of her paws, she carefully drew in her murder- 
ous claws, which were sharp and curved like a Damascus 
blade. The Frenchman kept one hand on his dagger, 
again watching his opportunity to plunge it into the 
belly of the too-confiding beast; but the fear that she 
might strangle him in her last convulsions once more 
stayed his hand. Moreover, he felt in his heart a fore- 
boding of remorse which warned him not to destroy a 
hitherto inoffensive creature. He even fancied that 
he had found a friend in the limitless desert. His 
mind turned back, involuntarily, to his first mistress, 
whom he had named in derision ‘* Mignonne,” because 


400 A Passion in the Desert. 


her jealousy was so furious that throughout the whole 
period of their intercourse he lived in dread of the knife 
with which she threatened him. This recollection of 
his youth suggested the idea of teaching the young pan- 
ther, whose soft agility and grace he now admired with 
less terror, to answer to the caressing name. Towards 
evening he had grown so familiar with his perilous 
position that he was half in love with its dangers, and 
his companion was so far tamed that she had caught 
the habit of turning to him when he called, in falsetto 
tones, ‘*‘ Mignonne !” 

As the sun went down Mignonne uttered at intervals 
a prolonged, deep, melancholy cry. 

‘¢She is well brought up,” thought the gay soldier. 
‘* She says her prayers.” But the jest only came into 
his mind as he watched the peaceful attitude of his com- 
rade. 

‘¢Come, my pretty blonde, I will let you go to bed 
first,” he said, relying on the activity of his legs to get 
away as soon as she fell asleep, and trusting to find 
some other resting-place for the night. He waited 
anxiously for the right moment, and when it came he 
started vigorously in the direction of the Nile. But he 
had scarcely marched for half an hour through the sand 
before he heard the panther bounding after him, giving 
at intervals the saw-like cry which was more terrible to 
hear than the thud of her bounds. 

“ Well, well!” he cried, “she must have fallen in 
love with me! Perhaps she has never met any one else. 
It is flattering to be her first love.” 

So thinking, he fell into one of the treacherous quick- 
sands which deceive the inexperienced traveller in the 


A Passion in the Desert. 401 


desert, and from which there is seldom any escape. He 
felt he was sinking, and he uttered a ery of despair. 
The panther seized him by the collar with her teeth, 
and sprang vigorously backward, drawing him, like 
magic, from the sucking sand. 

‘*Ah, Mignonne!” cried the soldier, kissing her 
with enthusiasm, ‘‘ we belong to each other now, —for 
life, for death! But play me no tricks,” he added, as 
he turned back the way he came. 

From that moment the desert was, as it were, peopled 
for him. It held a being to whom he could talk, and 
whose ferocity was now lulled into gentleness, although 
he could scarcely explain to himself the reasons for this 
extraordinary friendship. His anxiety to keep awake 
and on his guard succumbed to excessive weariness both 
of body and mind, and throwing himself down on the 
floor of the grotto he slept soundly. At his waking 
Mignonne was gone. He mounted the little hill to scan 
the horizon, and perceived her in the far distance return- 
ing with the long bounds peculiar to these animals, who 
are prevented from running by the extreme flexibility of 
their spinal column. 

Mignonne came home with bloody jaws, and received 
the tribute of caresses which herslave hastened to pay, all 
the while manifesting her pleasure by reiterated purring. 

Her eyes, now soft and gentle, rested kindly on the 
Provencal, who spoke to her lovingly as he would to a 
domestic animal. 

“Ah! Mademoiselle, —for you are an honest girl, 
are you not? You like to be petted, don’t you? Are 
you not ashamed of yourself? You have been eating a 


Maugrabin. Well, well! they are animals like the rest 
26 


402 A Passion in the Desert. 


of you. But you are not to craunch up a Frenchman; 
remember that! If you do, I will not love you.” 

She played like a young dog with her master, and let 
him roll her over and pat and stroke her, and sometimes 
she would coax him to play by laying a paw upon his 
knee with a pretty soliciting gesture. 

Several days passed rapidly. This strange compan- 
ionship revealed to the Provengal the sublime beauties 
of the desert. The alternations of hope and fear, the 
sufficiency of food, the presence of a creature who occu- 
pied his thoughts,— all this kept his mind alert, yet free : 
it was a life full of strange contrasts. Solitude revealed 
to him her secrets, and wrapped him with her charm. 
In the rising and the setting of the sun he saw splen- 
dors unknown to the world of men. He quivered as 
he listened to the soft whirring of the wings of a bird,— 
rare visitant !— or watched the blending of the fleeting 
clouds,— those changeful and many-tinted voyagers. 
In the waking hours of the night he studied the play of 
the moon upon the sandy ocean, where the strong si- 
moom had rippled the surface into waves and ever-vary- 
ing undulations. He lived in the Eastern day; he 
worshipped its marvellous glory. He rejoiced in the 
grandeur of the storms when they rolled across the vast 
plain, and tossed the sand upward till it looked like a 
dry red fog or a solid death-dealing vapor; and as the 
night came on he welcomed it with ecstasy, grateful for 
the blessed coolness of the light of the stars. His ears 
listened to the music of the skies. Solitude taught him 
the treasures of meditation. He spent hours in recall- 
ing trifles, and in comparing his past life with the weird 
present. 


A Passion in the Desert. 403 


He grew fondly attached to his panther; for he was 
aman who needed an affection. Whether it were that 
his own will, magnetically strong, had modified the na- 
ture of his savage princess, or that the wars then rag- 
ing in the desert had provided her with an ample sup- 
ply of food, it is certain that she showed no sign of 
attacking him, and became so tame that he soon felt no 
fear of her. He spent much of his time in sleeping ; 
though with his mind awake, like a spider in its web, 
lest he should miss some deliverance that might chance 
to cross the sandy sphere marked out by the hori- 
zon. He had made his shirt into a banner and tied 
it to the top of a palm-tree which he had stripped of 
its leafage. Taking counsel of necessity, he kept the 
flag extended by fastening the corners with twigs and 
wedges; for the fitful wind might have failed to wave 
it at the moment when the longed-for succor came in 
sight. 

Nevertheless, there were long hours of gloom when 
hope forsook him; and then he played with his panther. 
He learned to know the different inflections of her voice 
and the meanings of her expressive glance ; he studied 
the variegation of the spots which shaded the dead gold 
of her robe. Mignonne no longer growled when he 
caught the tuft of her dangerous tail and counted the 
black and white rings which glittered in the sunlight 
like a cluster of precious stones. He delighted in the 
soft lines of her lithe body, the whiteness of her belly, 
the grace of her charming head: but above all he loved 
to watch her as she gambolled at play. The agility 
and youthfulness of her movements were a constantly 
fresh surprise to him. He admired the suppleness of 


404 A Passion in the Desert. 


the flexible body as she bounded, crept, and glided, 
or clung to the trunk of palm-trees, or rolled over 
and over, crouching sometimes to the ground, and 
gathering herself together as she made ready for her 
vigorous spring. Yet, however vigorous the bound, 
however slippery the granite block on which she 
landed, she would stop short, motionless, at the one 
word ‘* Mignonne.” 

One day, under a dazzling sun, a large bird hovered 
in the sky. The Provencal left his panther to watch 
the new guest. After a moment’s pause the neglected 
sultana uttered a low growl. 

“The devil take me! I believe she is jealous!” ex- 
claimed the soldier, observing the rigid look which once 
more appeared in her metallic eyes. ‘* The soul of 
Sophronie has got into her body !” 

The eagle disappeared in ether, and the French- 
man, recalled by the panther’s displeasure, admired 
afresh her rounded flanks and the perfect grace of her 
attitude. She was as pretty asa woman. ‘The blonde 
brightness of her robe shaded, with delicate gradations, 
to the dead-white tones of her furry thighs; the vivid 
sunshine brought out the brilliancy of this living gold 
and its variegated brown spots with indescribable lustre. 
The panther and the Provencal gazed at each other with 
human comprehension. She trembled with delight — 
the coquettish creature !— as she felt the nails of her 
friend scratching the strong bones of her skull. Her 
eyes glittered like flashes of lightning, and then she 
closed them tightly. 

‘¢ She has a soul!” cried the soldier, watching the 
tranquil repose of this sovereign of the desert, golden 


A Passion in the Desert. 405 


as the sands, white as their pulsing light, solitary and 
burning as they. 


‘* Well,” she said, ‘‘ I have read your defence of the 
beasts. But tell me what was the end of this friend- 
ship between two beings so formed to understand each 
other.” 

‘¢ Ah, exactly,” I replied. ‘‘It ended as all great 
passions end,—by a misunderstanding. Both sides 
imagine treachery, pride prevents an explanation, and 
the rupture comes about through obstinacy.” 

‘¢ Yes,” she said, ‘‘ and sometimes a word, a look, an 
exclamation suflices. But tell me the end of the story.” 

*¢ That is difficult,” I answered. ‘* But I will give it 
to you in the words of the old veteran, as he finished 
the bottle of champagne and exclaimed: ‘I don’t know 
how I could have hurt her, but she suddenly turned 
upon me as if in fury, and seized my thigh with her 
sharp teeth; and yet (as I afterwards remembered) not 
cruelly. Ithought she meant to devour me, and I plunged 
my dagger into her throat. She rolled over with a cry 
that froze my soul; she looked at me in her death- 
struggle, but without anger. I would have given all 
the world —my cross, which I had not then gained, all, 
everything —to have brought her back to life. It was 
as if I had murdered a friend, a human being. When 
the soldiers who saw my flag came to my rescue they 
found me weeping. Monsieur,’ he resumed, after a 
moment’s silence, ‘I went through the wars in Ger- - 
many, Spain, Russia, France; I have marched my 
carcass wellnigh over all the world; but I have seen 


406 A Passion in the Desert. 


nothing comparable to the desert. Ah, it is grand! 
glorious |” 

‘¢¢ What were your feelings there?’ I asked. 

‘¢¢ They cannot be told, young man. Besides, I do 
not always regret my panther and my palm-tree oasis: 
I must be very sad for that. But I will tell you this: 
in the desert there is all — and yet nothing.’ 

‘¢ * Stay !— explain that.’ 

‘«¢ Well, then,’ he said, with a gesture of impatience, 
‘God is there, and man is not.’” 


THE END. 














| UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY, LOS ANGELES 
COLLEGE LIBRARY 





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